Thursday, August 30, 2012

Day 100, August 30

A few weeks ago, I wrote about menopausal vocabulary, including flustrated and depissed.  A dear friend sent me another word:  exhaustipated.  Exhaustipated is the combination of exhausted and constipated. 

Having been in both of those states, I can relate.  When one is in both of those states at the same time, it is especially flustrating.  Menopsaul women often find themselves in other states as well.  Recently I've been in the state of confusion, the state of denial, and the state of embarrassment.

If we combine two of these, we have the state of confusnial.  Another combination leaves us in the state of embarrasfusion.  (Which makes perfect sense as in when one is embarrassed, one is frequently confused as well.)

Ah, menopause.  What state will you take me to next?

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Date 99, August 29

When I turned 50, much of my self-restraint melted away.  When I reached the 60 year mark, even more of my restraint disappeared and I called people out on their bad behavior.  (Witness my relationship with my ex daughter in law, who thinks I'm the biggest witch around.) 

My sister, a  sedate lady, fears what will happen when I reach another of those milestone birthdays.  It set me to speculating.

Will I forego wearing clothes? (Let's hope not.)
Will I start wearing my bra on the outside of my shirt?  (Hey, Madonna did it years ago.)
Will I forget to wear a bra at all?  (Already there.)
Will I start to make up naughty poetry?  (Alas, I've done that for years.)

As I think about it, I'm not too worried after all.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Day 98, August 28

Menopausers find themselves subjected to the most inane questions at our yearly visit to the doctor. Consider the following:

Doctor:  When did you have your last period?

Me:  Sometime in the last century.

Doctor:  How many times do you need to get up during the night to use the bathroom?

Me:  Twelve.  (What business is that of theirs anyway?)

Doctor:  Do you practice safe sex?

Me:  Well, my husband and I do our best not to roll off the bed and hurt ourselves.

Doctor:  Are you taking any drugs?

Me:  No.  But I wish I were.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Day 97, August 27

 A few days ago, I had a doctor's appointment to have my hip checked.  An  x-ray revealed that the hip replacement was fine.  It also showed that those same two globes of fat (my ass) were hanging just as they had months ago. 

I've finally figured out why God and nature put our asses in the rear:  so we don't have to look at them!  Having mine show up in black and white detail is always a shock.  (I know it's there, but I tend to put it out of my mind.)

A few months ago, I shared a childhood ditty:  "Do Your Ears Hang Low?"

Today I'd like to take poetic license with it.  Please bear with my naughtiness.

Does your ass hang low?  (Yes)
Does it wobble to and fro?  (Yes)
Can you tie it in a knot?  (Not yet)
Can you tie it in a bow? (Pretty darn close)
Can you throw it over your shoulder like a continental soldier? (Sweet heaven, I hope not)
Does your ass hang low?

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Day 96, August 26

The other day, I was leafing through a women's magazine (you'd think I'd have given that up by now, wouldn't you?).  Anyway, the magazine featured an article about skin care, for the 30s, the 40s, and the 50s.  Then it stopped.  Apparently those of us past the 59 mark no longer need skin care or we are such an unimportant demographic that magazines can't be bothered to address our needs.

The truth is, we need skin care more than ever.  Our skin is thin, papery, and crepey.  (No, not creepy, crepey.)  My once radiant skin has the texture of dried up paste.    But the skin care industry and publishing moguls have decreed that I and my menopausal sisters no longer exist.

Do you know what I use on my face? Vaseline.  And when I run out of Vaseline, I resort to Crisco.  Both have the gooey, oozey moisture that my parched skin craves. 

In fact, maybe I'll start my own line of menopausal skin care products.  I'm experimenting with a name:  Grease for Geezers.  What do you think?

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Day 95, August 25

You all know that I'm a Maxine fan.  There's another kick-ass lady who ranks high on my role model list:  Betty White.

At age 90, she stars in two television shows, guest hosts talk shows, makes appearances in movies, has written several books, does commericals, is an animal rights activist, and a host of other things.  Never does she say, "I'm too old.  I'm too tired.  I'm too out of date for anyone to listen to me." 

She just does it.

What a magnificent lady.  I've used the above excuses and more, to get out of things, to talk myself in to not trying something new, to explain to others why I can't do something. 

The problem is, those excuses won't fly.  Not when compared to the Incomparable Betty.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Day 94, August 24

I jsut finished perusing a women's magazine, including an article about Martha Stewart.  It made me tired.    Don't get me wrong:  I admire the woman.  You've got to hand it to her--she survived a stint in prison and came out looking younger than ever.  (If I could do the same, I'd consider doing some insider trading myself.)

But back to the Great Martha.  By the time I'd read how she stuffs cherry tomatos with a bit of ricotta and herbs and that she makes her own jellies and jams to give out as treats to her guests, I was more than tired.  To use a menopausal term, I was de-pissed. 

At a time when our bodies are slowing down, she wants us to stuff tomatos and make jams and jellies? (With fruit from her own garden, of course.)  Come on.  I'm lucky if I make it to the bathroom in time.  In fact, I'm lucky if I make it to the bathroom at all.

No, Martha Stewart doesn't have to fear any competition from me.  I'm much more a Maxine follower.  (And no, I'm not on her payroll, though I wish I were.)  Maxine's got her priorities straight.  Put her under a strong gust of air conditioning, give her a pound of chocolate, and she's good to go.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Day 93, August 23

"I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me,
but now I'm more afraid of succeeding at things that don't matter."
Bob Goff

Those of you who read my other blog may be surprised to find it here in the MM as well.  What can I say?  I hate to let good material go to waste.

I feel qualified to speak on failing at things that really matter to me as I've done it so many times.  There's being a church member, being a wife, being a mother, and, just when I thought I couldn't fail any more, there's being a grandmother.  (Yes, even our sweet grandchildren can make us feel like failures.  Having just spent 4 days with two of my grandchildren, I speak from recent experience.)

We menopausers are confronted with our failures on all fronts.  A week or so, I wrote about guilt.  Guilt and failure are a matched set.  They sprang form the same womb, grew up together bickering, and spend all their time reminding us that we don't measure up. 

As for the other part of this quote--succeeding at things that don't matter--I feel less qualified to speak on.  I'm still waiting to succeed--at anything at all.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Day 92, August 22

A couple of days ago, I blogged about Maxine, extolling her wisdom.  With one of those twists of fate that the universe does with such capriciousness, a friend sent me this series of Maxine's warnings that came to her via email.  In an effort to be helpful, I want to take this opportunity to share them with you.

I can't sit down on a hotel bedspread because I can only imagine
what has happened on it since it was last washed.

I have trouble shaking hands
with someone who has been driving
because the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one's nose.

Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because
I can only
imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years.

I can't touch any woman's handbag
for fear she has placed it on
the floor of a public toilet.

I must send my special thanks
for the email about rat poo
in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with
every envelope that needs sealing.

now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

I can't have a drink in a bar
because I fear I'll wake up in a bathtub
full of ice with my kidneys gone.

I can't eat at KFC
because their chickens are actually horrible mutant
freaks with no eyes, feet or feathers.

I can't use cancer-causing deodorants
even though I smell like a
water buffalo on a hot day.

Thanks to you
I have learned that my prayers only get answered
if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

Because of your concern ,
I no longer drink Coca Cola because
it can remove toilet stains.

I no longer buy
fuel without taking someone along to watch the car,
so a serial killer doesn't crawl in my back seat when I'm filling up.

I no longer use Cling Wrap
in the microwave because it causes
seven different types of cancer.

And thanks for letting me know
I can't boil a cup of water
in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face, disfiguring
me for life.

I no longer go to the cinema
because I could be pricked with a
needle infected with AIDS when I sit down.

I no longer go to shopping centers
because someone will drug
me with a perfume sample and rob me..

And I no longer answer the phone because someone will ask
me to dial a number for which I will get a huge phone bill with calls to
Jamaica , Uganda , Singapore and Uzbekistan ..

Thanks to you
I can't use anyone's toilet but mine because a
big black snake could be lurking under the seat and cause me instant
death when it bites my butt.

And thanks to your great advice
I can't ever pick up a
dime coin dropped in the car park because it was probably placed
there by a sex molester waiting to grab me as I bend over.

I can't do any gardening
because I'm afraid I'll get bitten by the
Violin Spider and my hand will fall off.

Well, there you have it folks.  Maxine's warnings for us all.  As usual, she has the right of it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going have a much needed nap on my bed covered by a bedspread that's had heaven-knows-what done on it.

Day 91, August 21

A friend sent these to me.  They tickled me so much that I wanted to share them with you as they seem to reflect the menopausal condition. 
I used to eat a lot of natural foods until I learned that most people die of natural causes.
There are two kinds of pedestrians: the quick and the dead.
Life is sexually transmitted.
Healthy is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.
The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday lying in hospitals dying of nothing.
Have you noticed since everyone has a camcorder these days no one talks about seeing UFOs like they used to?
Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again.
All of us could take a lesson from the weather. It pays no attention to criticism.
In the 60's people took acid to make the world weird. Now the world is weird and people take Prozac to make it normal.

Why does your OB-GYN leave the room when you get undressed if they are going to look up there anyway?   (And we all know where they're going to look.)

Monday, August 20, 2012

Day 90, August 20

Have you ever met a woman to whom you instantly felt connected?  Someone whose personality and tastes so instantly match your own that you know you are destined to become bosom buddies?

I have.  I found her in the greeting card section of my local grocery store.  Maxine. 

Got a problem with your man?  Tell Maxine and she'll tell you that you deserve better.

Do you gain weight faster than a politician lies?  Tell Maxine.  She'll remind you that at least you're still alive and kicking.

Did you find another woman's thong underwear in the glove compartment of your husband's car?  Tell Maxine.  She'll tell you to use it as a slingshot.

You've got to hand it to Maxine.  She tells it as it is and makes no apologies for being politically incorrect.  I'm thinking of writing her name in for president in the November election.  As far as I know, she's never hired an illegal alien, refused to show her citizenship papers, or hand over her tax return.  You go, Maxine!

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Day 89, August 19

If you can't be a good example ~ then you'll just have to be a horrible warning.

I figure I'll have served a purpose in life if I can be a horrible warning to at least one woman.  And you know what that warning is:  DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU

Practical person that I am, I've even thought of a way to turn this in to a career:  I could be one of those "before" models that you see on makeovers.  (Come on.  You didn't really think the same woman was both the "before" and the "after" on those televsion makeover shows, did you?)

Greeting card writer, the "before" model, what career can I come up with next?

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Day 88, August 18

Inside every older person is a younger person -- wondering what the hell happened.
~ Cora Harvey Armstrong ~

Yes, indeed, what the hell happened?

What happened to the once lithe body that could leap over buildings (or small children) in a single bound?
What happened to the long blond hair unstreaked with gray?
What happened to the firm breasts and tight ass?
What happened to the unmarred skin and full lips?

I'll tell you what happened.  Life happened.  Gravity happened.  Husband and children and a cat who believes she's of royal descent happened.

And, mostly, that's all right.  Though I'd still like to be able to leap over anything in a single bound.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Day 87, August 17

I refuse to think of them as chin hair. I think of them as stray eyebrows.
~ Janette Barber~

Well, we've returned to that nasty subject of unwanted facial hair.  I'd be more patient with these hairs if I could find them when I go to pluck them.   Aging eyes and an unsteady hand, however, make that nearly impossible.  So I went another route.  I decided to cream them in to submission.

This sounds good, in theory.  Smooth on some depilatory cream and watch the hairs fall off.  Another problem arose, though:  depilatories stink to high heaven. 

So there I was:  faced with three choices:  pluck, depilatorize, or ignore.

Pragmatist that I am, I chose the last.  I just make certain to hang out with friends whose eyesight is worse than mine.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Day 86, August 16

"Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.' In a pinch I use my broom. "

If you are familiar with my other blog, you know that friendship is an important theme to me.  Well, a  dear friend sent this quote to me.  I love it!  I love the punch at the end, that unexpected kick of humor.

Now, to the subject of brooms, I am not opposed to people seeing me riding around on a broomstick.  Nor am I particularly opposed to them seeing me as a witch.  (Believe me, I've been called worse.  Much worse.)  Witches have power.  There are good witches and bad witches.  I like to think of myself as a good witch, but I'm open to change.

If I can be a bad witch to those who deserve some witchly retribution in their lives, I'm happy, even eager, to serve.  In the meantime, I've got to get back to my broom.  My cat and my husband have made a mess on the kitchen floor.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Day 85, August 15

One of the problems menopausal women face is that of failing eyesight.  At the same time, we are dealing with high-maintenance to retain even a fraction of our once good looks.  This means more creams, more cleansers, more foundation, more eye makeup, more blush.  In a word, more.

On one rushed morning, as I was preparing to go to physical therapy, I penciled in eyebrows (my own brows have grown distressingly thin).  I gave myself one last look in the mirror, decided I was good to go, and took off.  When I arrived at the rehab center, my therapist (a beautiful young woman) looked at me and said, "Jane, why do you have green eyebrows?"

"I didn't know I did."

She nodded and patted my shoulder.  Surrepitiiously, I spit on my hand and tried to wipe away the green eyebrows and ruefully, if silently, acknowledged what had happened.  I had mistaken a green eye shadow pencil for my eyebrow pencil.   My aging eyesight had failed to distinguish the difference, even when I checked myself in the mirror.

Satisfied that I'd removed the offending green brows, I went from physical therapy to a doctor's appointment for a check-up.  The doctor looked at me and said, "How did you get the bruise under your eye?"

In my attempt to wipe away the green eyebrows, I had apparently smeared the eye shadow under my eye to give me a bruised appearance.

"I walked in to a door," I told him, lying through my teeth.

He patted my shoulder.  I get a lot of that lately.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Day 84, August 14

Have you ever paid attention to all the cermonies and celebrations of life  that go on around us?  There are birthdays, baptisms, bar mitzvahs, graduations, marriages, anniversaries, and a host of others.  Yet our culture has no event to celebrate the change of life.  Even Hallmark, which produces cards for nearly every occasion, including that of divorce, fails to cash in on this opportunity.

I can conjure up several greeting card ideas to mark the passage in to menopause:

Front of the card:  Welcome to Menopause.  You're used up, dried up, and washed up.

Inside:  Don't worry.  Be happy.

And another:

Front of the card:  What do you do when good sex goes bad?

Inside: Increase your chocolate intake.

Maybe I'll take up  a career in writing greeting card verse.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Day 83, August 13

If there's one thing that menopausal women are on intimate terms with, it's guilt.  We wear it.  We eat it.  Indeed, we feed on it.  This doubles, or triples, if you are an MMW (Menopausal Mormon Woman). 

I can hear you Young Mormon Women (YMWs) now, crying, "Hey, we have guilt, too."

I know.  I feel your pain.  The difference is MMWs have thirty plus additional years of guilt on you.  What do we feel guilty about?

As a start:

Our children, now grown, have come back to us, complaining, "You did that TO me."  "You didn't do that FOR me."  "You spent more on HIM than you did on ME."  And they're right.

Our husbands complain, "You've let yourself go.  You're no longer the young, beautiful woman I married."  They're right.

If our parents are still alive, they tell us that we haven't done enough for them.  Right, again.

And then there's the church:

Have you done your missionary work?  (No.)
Have you done your genealogy work? (No.)
Have you done your visiting teaching? (Well, sort of.)
Have you participated in every service project (which number approximately 5 a week)? (No.)
Have you pulled weeds at the stake farm?
Have you cleaned the chapel this week? (No.)
Have you put 200% into your church calling? (No.)
Have you cheered up the sad and made someone feel glad? (No.)

Well, you get the idea.

Yes, guilt is our constant companion.  We take it to bed with us at night and wake up with it in the morning.  We take it to the grocery store with us when we are tempted to buy a box of Oreos.  We take it shopping with us when we try on a pair of pants and find we can no longer get in to the size we once wore.  We take it to church where we're told "You're not doing enough.  You're not good enough.  You will never be good enough." 

We just take it.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Day 82, August 12

Fortune is not for the faint-hearted.--Sophocles

I was a faint-hearted young wife and mother.  I deferrerd--to everybody.  Not a contentious thing escaped my lips.  These may be good qualities, but, looking back, I realize I did myself a disservice by always being willing to give in.  And give up.

These days, I'm more of a tiger than a pussy cat.  (Though I adore my cat.)  I've written in earlier posts how I channel my mama wolverine when someone threatens my family.  In fact, that same wolverine made an appearance or two in my younger days, but never in defense of myself.

I let people walk all over me.  And I took it.  Again and again.  I allowed others to see me as weak and wimpy and wussy.  (Don't you love a good alliteration?)

I still occasionally struggle to stand up for myself, but menopause (with its accompanying lack of estrogen) has given me the gumption to stand up and give back as good as I get.   Yes, I'm a menopausal mama with her own set of claws and fangs.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Day 81, August 11

By now you know that I am fascinated by all things strange and downright weird.  Take my fascination with the woman with the world's largest breasts.  Who could predict that such a topic would intrigue me so much?

And then there's my interest iin the mating habits of insects.  Do you know that in the copulation of some insects that the female dispatches (kills) the male after he has serviced her?  Depending on the state of my marriage (and my mind), this does not seem an all together bad idea.

I didn't used to be so intrigued with these kinds of subjects.  Before menopause, I could converse intelligently on a number of subjects; indeed, I was considered to be not too shabby in the brains department.  When menopause hit, my interest in normal topics took a nosedive and I started collecting these tidbits of oddities.

Ah, well.   It makes for fascinating dinner conversation.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Day 80, August 10

Most of us menopausers have had mothers-in-law and/or are mothers-in-law.  MILs have a bad rep.  We're portrayed in the most heinous and nasty of ways.  Mostly I'm all right with that.  I figure a healthy dose of respect ... or fear ... in an in-law child is a good thing.  After all, before a woman becomes a mother-in-law, she is first, and foremost, a mother.  (My ex daughter-in-law knows exactly where she stands with me.)

When I learned of a dear friiend's daughter who had been cheated on by her husband with the resulting pain of divorce, I decided to take my SIL aside and, in my genteel, lady-like manner, put the fear of all that's holy in him if he ever cheated on my daughter.  I described to him that I would hunt him down like a feral dog, strip the flesh from his bones, and then rip his still-beating heart from his body if he hurt my baby girl. 

How's that for a sweet Mormon wife, mother, and grandmother? 

Really, my SIL and I have a good relationship.  After all, fear is a prime motivator.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Day 79, August 9

By the time a woman reaches menopause, she has collected a lot of experience (way too much experience) with all manner of feminine protection.  (And by feminine protection, I don't mean tae kwon do.) 

You know the kinds of things I'm talking about:  sanitary napkins, tampons, panty liners.  Grocery stores and drug stores devote aisle after aisle to such products.  They are all couched in generic language such as "feminine products" or "health aids." The trick is finding the right "product" or "aid" for you.

By the time I reached the panty liner end of the aisle in my shopping, I was not only confused.  I was pissed.  To use a menopausal word, I was de-pissed.  Why did manufacturers decide that we needed wings on our panty liners?  I always thought the point was to have the darn things stay put, not fly about with abandon.

Once I'd reached menopause, I'd (naively) thought that I was past trying to figure out the whole thing.  No such luck.
Now I need panty liners for a whole new purpose.  (That nasty leakage thing.)  Once again, I'm faced with the decision making process.

Fortunately, my decision was made for me when the Universe placed a sign in front of me:  I saw a panty liner winging its way past., beckoning me to buy her.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Day 78, August 8

Well, here I am again, after a brief hiatus. 

We're returning to a subject beloved by women of all ages:  that of breasts.  Have you noticed that most women are never satisfied with the size of their breasts?  We are either too little or too big, too flat or too generously proportioned.

I found a story on AOL news about a woman who was not only satisfied with her breasts, but made a living from them.  She has the distinction of having the world's largest (natural) breasts, measuring in at a bra size of 102 ZZZ.  Her breasts alone weigh 85 pounds.  The woman reported that she had never considered surgery, that God had given her these breasts and she was making the  best (or is that breast?) of them.  She makes a very respectable living by performing in soft core porn movies, having starred in more than 50 of them.

Good for her.

Though I don't aspire to star in soft core porn, I do admire a woman who supports herself.  (I just wonder what kind of bra she wears to support those money-makers of hers.)

What's the point of today's post? 

Celebrate yourself.  Whether you are a 28 AAA or a 102 ZZZ, rejoice in who you are.  (And don't discount the idea of a  career in show-biz.)

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Day 77, August 4

You probably feel that you are on pretty intimate terms with my various body parts by now.  You've learned about my 2 stomachs, my thighs that rub together to produce enough friction to light a hundred boy scout campfires, my drooping breasts, my newly replaced hip, not to mention the hairs that grow in increasingly embarrassing places.

Are you asking yourselves "What can the crazy lady write about now?"

Well, it's going to be a different kind of post.  Skip it if you'd like as it won't be the usual fare.

In the midst of dealing with ever-changing bodies, menopausal women also face changes in their emotions.  My emotions have always been haywire.  Part of that is that I really am crazy.  (Ask my family.)  Part of that is due to chemical depression.  There.  I've said it.  I suffer from chemical depression and have for nearly 40 years. 

To use the vernacular, it sucks. 

Depression takes an all right day and turns it on its head until its victim wants to hide under the covers and wait for the cloud to pass.  Depression makes you wonder why you bother to get up at all and why you should stay up if you did manage to pull yourself out of the bed.  Depression makes you feel like the worst kind of failure.  Depression makes you doubt the love of your family and friends.  Depression makes you doubt the love of your Father in Heaven. 

Good Mormon women aren't supposed to admit to any of this. We are suppose to hold our heads up high, sing "High on a Mountain Top" and praise be that we are alive.  Good thing that I've never claimed to be a Good Mormon Woman, now referred to as GMWs.

Take a depressed woman, add the screwed up hormones of menopause, and you have a woman ready to use a taser or gun on her nearest and dearest.  Is it any wonder my beloved refused to buy me a weapon for my birthday?  (See?  I still have my sense of humor.)  Add to that nasty brew a healthy dose of the guilt that GMWs carry around like the Ancient Mariner carried around the infamous albatross and you have a recipe for disaster.

Depression is a disease.  It is a disease as debilitating as diabetes, as pernicious as high blood pressure, and as nasty as cancer.  Yet we are fearful to tell others about it.  We are fearful that they will turn away from us.  We are fearful that other GMWs and GMM (Good Mormon Men) will look down on us. 

Think that's not so?  Ask any depressed woman and you will hear "No, I can't talk about that.  I can't let others know.  They'll tell me to eat the right foods.  They'll tell me to read the scriptures.  They'll tell me to serve others.  They'll tell me to run 5 miles every day."

All good things.  But they won't cure chemical depression.  And neither will judging them. 

Did you know that Utah, especially Utah County, has one of the highest rates of depression in the country?  Did you also know that Utah has one of the highest rates of suicide in the country?  Something to ponder.

Okay.  Enough of this depressing stuff.  (I made a funny.)

Here's our joke for the day:  How many depressed women does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer:  Five.  One to change it and four to bring Prozac.

Friday, August 3, 2012

Day 76, August 3

A few days ago I wrote about Lady Clairol.  Lady Clairol and I have become intimate friends; in fact, we're on a first name basis.  I call her "Lady" and she returns the favor by referring to me as Jane.

We meet about once a month.  In years gone by, our meetings took place only every three or four months.  However, stress, age, and global warning have turned our acquaintanceship into an on-going affair.

When I've waited too long before getting together, she greets my gray roots with a sigh of disapproval. 

L.C. : You know you can't wait more than four weeks before we get together.

Me:   (Shamefaced)  I know.

L.C.:  Your roots are screaming to be covered.

Me:  I know.

L.C.  Let's not wait so long  before we meet again.

Me.  Okay.

Lady Clairol and I.  If not a match made in heaven, we're at least bosom buddies.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Day 75, August 2

Does your mind ever stumble around like a drunken sailor searching for the right word when you're talking with others?  Mine does.  It fumbles and fumes (fumbilated) as it struggles to find the word it's looking for.   

In a word, I'm flustrated.  (Flustrated, of course, is a combination of flustered and frustrated.)  When I'm upset, I'm depissed.  (Depressed + pissed.)   I am in danger of becoming Mrs. Malaprop.

Ah, well.  My family and friends already think I'm croofy (crazy + goofy).  Good thing I can live with it.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Day 74, August 1

Those of us of in the MM age know that we face multiple medical procedures.  Most of these end with the letters "oscopy."  Foremost  are the endoscopy and the colonoscopy.  Both of these involve having tubes stuck in or up various bodily orifices.  I don't know about you, but I'm not a fan of having tubes stuck up, down, in, or around my orifices.

My orifices are tender.  They are frequently dry.  And they resent the hell of being the playthings of doctors.

Still, we persist in doing these procedures for our health.  Have you noticed that we do a lot of unpleasant things in the name of health?  We exercise.  We eat food that our ancestors would have tossed in a heartbeat (i.e. rice cakes and sprouts).  We plaster our faces with masques desigined to tighten our pores and erase our wrinkles.  (They don't work, but still we do it.)

And now, at an age when we should be allowed to rest and recuperate from the rigors of childbirth and childrearing, we're told we need to be scoped.  Like so much about menopause, we grit our teeth and try to come up with a reason why this is good for us.

Ah, well,   Lie back and think of England.