Day 161, October 31

Have you ever wondered about varicose veins?  Like, why do we have them?  And what're we supposed to do with them once we do?

For those among you too young to have experienced varicose veins, count your blessings but be prepared.  Pregnancy played a dirty trick on some of us, leaving not only stretch marks but nasty little clumps of veins in our legs.  Like my legs need more clumps and bumps and lumps.  My calves, which were once smooth and firm and toned, now look like two roller coasters, dips and waves, ups and downs, and everything in between.

Add some purplish veins and the knots that go with them, and you have something that Hollywood makeup artists only dream of achieving when they struggle to fashion scary stuff!

Gem for the day:  varicose veins are part of the Fall.   Oh, Eve, you have a lot to answer for.

Day 160, October 30

By the time a woman has reached menopause, she has probably learned how to stretch a dollar until it is as limp as the elastic in an old pair of sweat pants.  My own dollar-stretching has included any number of cheapskate tactics.  However, I recently learned that I'm not even in the same zip code as some frugal people when I watched a program entitled "Extreme Cheapskates."

Among the money saving tactics these individuals used included eschewing toilet paper.  They did all sorts of things to avoid using toilet paper, including cutting up old pieces of cloth, using them to "take care of the paperwork," then collecting them in a bucket and washing them once a week.  Another woman uses nothing at all, only a squirt bottle of water to tidy things up.  Serioiusly?

I'm all for saving a buck.  I can garage sale with the best of them, but I draw the line at doing without toilet paper.  What's more, I cough up the extra pennies for soft, cushiony toilet paper.  (My tush is delicate.)

Gem for the day:  if you can do without TP, more power to you.  If you're like me and need the reassurance of it, the same goes!

Day 159, October 29

All writers aspire to make the NYT bestseller list.  (If they don't, they are well too adjusted to become writers in the first place.)

When I read that FIFTY SHADES OF GRAY made the list, I was immediately envious.  I knew I didn't have a similar novel in me, but did come up with some nifty titles.  Tell me what you think:

Fifty Shades of Dishwasher Blond
Fifty Shades of Pasty White
Fifty Shades of Tired and De-sausted.
And, sometimes when dealing with my husband, AKA The Wretch, Fifty Shades of Mad as Hell

Gem for the day:  before you decide to write your Fifty Shades, make sure you know you have it in you.  Fifty of anything is a bunch.

Day 158, October 28

I related how my sister, Carla, and I recently visited Vegas.  While there, we perused the high end department stores.  One saleslady at a cosmetic counter promised to wipe away my undereye circles and bags and to erase the "feathers" around Carla's eyes with her overpriced, miracle cream.

She dabbed a plastic applicator into the cream and held it out.  "See how it glistens?  You can use it all over.  It will change your life."

Really?  That little dab of goop is going to change my life?  I don't think so.

"Honey," I drawled.  "It's going to take a lot more than that to change my life."  I picked up the jar of cream, saw that it was ninety five dollars for less than an ounce.   In my wildest fantasies, I wouldn't spend ninety five dollars for something that looks like mayonaise.  Give me a break.

"You will be sorry if you don't buy it," she said with a look of disapproval.

Gem for the day: I'd be sorry if I did buy it.  And I'm not talking about just the cream.


 

Day 157, October 27

It's no secret that I can be occasionally naughty.  It seems to have gotten worse the older I get.  I attribute it to the lack of hormones.  My estrogen dried up a long time ago, along with my skin, hair, and a lot of my good sense.

Still, I try to walk the straight and narrow.  I can hear you protesting now, saying, "Jane, no way do you do that." 

I beg to differ.  Just the other day I wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper. Surely that is the mark of a woman trying to walk the straight and narrow.  And there is my absolute devotion to my cat, Harley.  A person on the wrong path would not cater to her kitty's every need.

Gem for the day:  walking the straight and narrow doesn't mean you can't kick up your heels now and again.

Day 156, October 26

I told you how my sister, Carla, and I are trying to learn street talk.  Well, we had plenty of chances to practice it during the past few days while we were in Las Vegas.  My husband, Larry, accompanied us, to bring mail money, he says. 

First, Carla was mistaken as a lady of the evening.  In her most tough, street talk fashion, she told the man who wanted to procure her services, "Bite me."

"Thanks.  I think I will."

We quickly learned that "bite me" isn't the thing to say to a man who wants to hire you to fill his fantasies.  (Unless, of course, you're into that kind of thing.)

Not to be outdone, I told the next man (he wanted Carla as well--go figure) but I claimed him as a conquest, "True dat."  I don't know what he was saying, but I figured "True dat" works in just about every situation. 

He flashed me a yellow-stained tooth grin.  "True dat, yourself." 

Gem for the day:  what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.  Or, we hope so.

Day 155, October 25

Recently, I came across the term "re-virgination."  As always, the writer in me was eager to learn a new word, especially one as evocative as this.  As I read more about it, though, I was perplexed.  Even stunned.  Re-virgination?  Really?  Isn't that like trying to unring a bell?

It occurred to me that menopausers are always being told that we need to "re-something."  We are supposed to re-invent ourselves.  We are supposed to re-juvenate ourselves.  (In fact, there is a cosmetic procedure called rejevederm, touted as the successor to collagen injections.)   Now, we're supposed to re-virginate ourselves.

If you're like me, you want to shout, "Enough."  Why must I re-invent, re-juvenate, or re-virginate myself?  Why am I not good enough as I am?

Gem for the day:  the next time someone tells you to "re-something," tell them where to stuff it.

Day 154, October 24

One of the great unsolved mysteries that menopausers seek to solve is "Where did the time go?"  We blinked and found that we had lost thirty or forty years.  I married my beloved (aka The Wretch) when I was twenty one.  Nearly forty years later, I wonder, "Where did those years go?" (And along with that, where did my figure go, not to mention my sanity.)

I started counting up.  I spent nearly ten years being pregnant.  (Really, it wasn't quite that long as we had four children the natural way, one adopted.  It does account for 36 months, or three years, but when you figure in the bloating, morning sickness, craziness, and general "I feel like crap" parts of pregnancy, I feel entitled to round it up to ten years.)  I spent another ten years nursing.  Yes, it was that long.  I have the stretched boobs and bite marks to prove it. 

Then there's chauffeuring.  That easily accounts for fifteen years.  Chauffeuring to orthodontist appointments,  church activities, Little League, and paino lessons.  Chauffeuring to school phyiscals, school plays, and seminary.  Chauffeuring to Great Books Club, football practice, and flute lessons.  Chauffeuring to therapy.  (Really, that was me chaufferuing myself to therapy, but, hey, it's still driving somebody somewhere, so it counts.)

Well, that's thirty-five years right there.  Somewhere along the line, I must have been attending to my beloved. (Or how else would I have gotten pregnant the four times to begin with?)

Gem for the day: when you ask yourself where the time went, be careful.  You might find the answer.

Day 153, October 23

Life is made up of trade-offs.  We trade one thing for another.  Some of my trade-offs have been good.  Some, not so good.  Take for example, trading thinness for love of food.  Not so good.

Other trade-offs have been better.  My husband and I traded staying out of debt for a modest home.  We traded my staying at home with the children for less money.  We traded paying tithes and offerings for the same.

I know--you're thinking, well, big deal, Jane.  None of these are particularly surprising or revealing.  Where's the punch?  I guess I don't have a punchline today.  Just the reflection that by the time a woman reaches menopause, she is seeing what her trade-offs have gotten her.

Gem of the day:  be careful of the choices you make today because they will come back to bless--or haunt--you.

Day 152, October 22

A week or so ago, I wrote about potty parity, or, in other words, the dirty trick that nature and architects played upon women.  While women wait twelve-deep in a line to use the facilities at any sports, social, or cultural event, men zip in and zip out.  Unfair!

Don't get me wrong. I do not, I repeat, not, suffer from the particular envy that some women suffer from.  I don't want to be a man.  No way.  I like being a woman.  But I sure do envy the ease with which men can take care of business.  Anywhere.  Anytime.

So why can't architects and building planners take into account women's needs when it comes to restrooms?  We need more room.  We need more stalls.

The rebel in me has often been tempted to lead a charge into the men's restroom at public events and shout, "Zip up and get out.  The women are here."

Gem for the day: unless you can write your name in the snow, you're stuck waiting in line.

Day 151, October 21

Do you ever wish your life was like a fairy tale?  I have.  Then reality set in, in the form of dirty diapers, too little money, and a husband who snores.

Still, my dreams persisted. 

Finally, I reconciled my desire for a fairy tale life with my own life and came up with the following: 

Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs became "Pasty White and the 5 Munchkins"
Sleeping Beauty morphed into "Not Sleeping at All"
Beauty and the Beast spun into "Passable Looking and The Wretch"

By now, you're getting the picture. 

Gem for the day:  when you start wishing your life were a fairy tale, remember those tales were written by the Brothers Grimm.

Day 150, October 20

I've told you about my sister Carla.  We are closer than sisters, more intimate than friends.  We share everything, including an off-beat sense of humor.  (Mine's a bit more off-beat than hers, but that's because I was dropped on my head as a baby.)  So when I told her to "get down with her bad self," (part of my street talk), she shot right back, "If I got down with my bad self, I'd never get back up again."

That's the trouble when you reach menopause.  Getting down (with your bad self or your good self, for that matter) means getting back up again. No easy feat.  Especially when you've got a fake hip and the atrophied muscles that go with it.

Gem for the day:  before getting down with any of your selves, make sure you can get back up again.

Day 149, October 19

My sister Carla and I are trying to learn street talk.  (I'm a firm believer that you're never too old to learn something new.)

In an effort to help us with that, my daughter Alanna taught me a few phrases which I promptly shared with Carla.  Among those phrases was "True dat."  To say it properly, one must make it all one word:  Truedat.  You need to put the emphasis on the right syllable.  Otherwise, you end up sounding ridiculous.  A friend, Laurie, told me that I needed pooer diction if I were going to carry off street talk.

Alanna also taught me "Bite me."  It seemed an all-purpose phrase, handy in any number of situations.  Once again, I shared my new- found knowledge with Carla.  Carla had opportunity to use the phrase on a vacation with her children and grandchildren.  When they were hurrying her along, she turned and said, "Bite me."

Her children turned to her in horrified shock.  "Mom," her son said.  "What did you say?"

"Aunt Jane taught it to me," she explained.

"Ah."  They nodded as one.

Well, color me surprised when I learned that "Bite me" has a less than savory meaning.  (Once again this was my friend Laurie who told me--and how did she know, I wondered. ) I won't spell it out here, but you can probably figure it out.  (Alanna was as surprised as I was.)

Needless to say, Carla now says "Bite me"  only in the most dire situations.  Unfortunately (or fortunately), it has become embedded in my vocabulary.  Whenever someone raises an eyebrow at my language, I simply shrug and say, "Menopause."

Gem for the day:  Use "bite me" at the risk of your reputation.  Mine's already in shreds, so I'm not worried.

Day 148, October 18

If you've reached the ripe old age of menopause, you know something about disappointment.  Disappointments come in many guises.  Sometimes they come in the guise of relationships.

You can't be a functioning woman without having dozens of relationships.  And sometimes those relations with our husbands, our children, our parents, our friends hurt.  (Most of the time, they're good, but pain is an element of the human condition.)

Much of the pain I've experienced has been the result of my own bad choices.  Some pain, though, comes from the unrighteous choices of others.  Take my ex-daughter-in-law.  She caused our family untold pain.  It wasn't just that she had hurt my son and my grandsons.  It was that I had loved her, loved her as a daughter.  And she threw it all away.

So, this is a different kind of post, a reflective moment, in the often goofy, frequently naughty workings of my mind.

Gem for the day:  if you can't handle disappointment and pain, you probably won't reach menopause.

Day 147, October 17

As I wrote yesterday, menopausers are survivors.

We have survived the rebellion of children, the deaths of parents, and, for some, the defection of spouses. We have survived cellulite, celebrations, and sell-a-thons. We have survived in-laws, out-laws, and bylaws (of all the organizations we were told we must join). We have survived church meetings (those who are Mormon will understand), PTA meetings, and civic meetings. We have survived hip replacements, cancer, and pneumonia.

We have survived repression, rejection, and regression (that is where the mother wants to join her two-year-old who is throwing a world-class tantrum in the chapel aisle in the middle of Sacrament Meeting). We have survived flooded basements and flooded bathrooms. We have survived the loss of dreams and the loss of love. We have survived the thinning of our hair and the thickening of our waistlines.

We are women.  We are warriors.  We are survivors

Gem for the day: don't mess with a menopausal woman. You might not survive.

Day 146, October 16

Menopausers have endured much.  You don't get to be this age without surviving a number of catastrophes, calamities, and casualties.  (Don't you love a good alliteration?)

One of the things our family has attempted to do over the years is performing that annual ritual:  the taking of the family portrait.  The memory of such ill-fated forays is indelibly etched upon my mind.  First, there is the whole "what do we wear" thing. 

The Choate family was never coordinated enough to have everyone wear matching outfits.  You've seen those beautiful portraits where parents and children appear in jeans and matching denim shirts.  Not for us.  No, we considered ourselves lucky if we were all dressed with any buttons done up in the right order.

Then there is the "keeping your hands to yourself" thing.  At one family portrait taking, our then 13-year-old son persisted in putting his hand behind his sister's head and making a rude gesture. 

"Please put your hand down," the photographer said in a strained voice.

I glared at our son, who gave me an innocent smile.  Up went that hand again.

"Please put your hand down."  The photographer's voice ratcheted up a notch.

On the third attempt, Rob (those who know our family won't be surprised that it was Rob) stuck his hand behind his sister's head.  Again.

"Put your damn hand down."  Patience and politeness had fled.  The photographer appeared to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

Somehow the poor man managed to get a picture of us.  We escaped with no blood shed.  And called the evening a success.

Day 145, October 15

My husband took exception to being called "The Wretch."  Frankly, I don't blame him.  I should have been extolling his virtues--and they are many--rather than calling him names.

Sometimes, though, the man acts like a wretch.  I suppose he can't help it.  After all, he does have that Y (as in why do they--men--have it?) gene. 

A man does things differently than a woman.  He thinks differently.  He feels differently.  He talks differently.  A case in point is a conversation my spouse and I have had on various occasions.  During our morning walks, I claim that it is cooler in the shade.  My husband, an engineer (and this explains so much) maintains that it is not really cooler in the shade, it is only the "radiant heat transfer" of the sun that makes it seem hotter when we're not in the shade.

Really?  Radiant heat transfer?  Who talks that way?  Who thinks that way?  A man, of course.  A man who happens to be an engineer.

Gem for the day:  don't talk to a man about hot and cold.  He won't get it.

Day 144, October 14

I grew up during the Civil Rights movement, the Women's Rights movement, and survived a number of bowel movements when I was pregnant (and let me tell you that was no laughing matter).  I had little patience with the Women's Rights movement, mostly because it didn't address what really mattered.

Number One:  Hair.  Women are supposed to be completely hair free (except on our heads, of course.  There, we are to have long, gleaming tresses worthy of Lady Godiva.)  Men, on the other hand, were given a free pass to have body hair any old place.  Have you ever seen a man with a hairy back?  The poor guy looks like he's wearing a vest.  Why, I want to demand of the Universe, must a woman subject herself to all sorts of indignities of hair removal but a man can strut around looking like he just stepped out of a cave? 

Number Two:  Bathrooms.  Have you noticed that in any public venue, women are lined up from here to eternity and back to use the facilities while the line to the men's room is non-existent.  I mean, really, what's the deal with that?  Architects and nature pander to men in this area, while women are hopping around on one foot trying to "hold it."  If Women's Rights are truly to be achieved, then we need potty parity.

We'll no doubt revisit the subject of rights at a later date.

Gem for the day:  if you want to have equal rights with a man, grow your body hair and learn to pee standing up.  Since I'm unwilling to do eitiher, I guess I'm destined to be a second-class citizen.

Day 143, October 13

You know my feelings about hormones, nasty little things that tend to run amock when unchecked.  Just when we think we've gotten them under control, they disappear altogether.

Little is said about men's hormones, though.  And never let it be forgotten that they (men) do have them (hormones).  They come from that infamous Y chromosome.  I have always referred to it as the "Why chromosome" as in "Why do they have it?"

This chromosome is accountable for all sorts of mischief.  In fact, some men have literally gotten away with murder by claiming that they have too much testosterone, a result of that chromosome.

What a crock. 

Men have been getting away with things ever since Adam blamed Eve for making him take a bite out of that apple.  If he'd had any gumption, he would have eaten the apple in the first place and started the human race, instead of letting poor Eve take the rap.

Gem for the day:  don't let the man in your life get away with anything.

Day 142, October 12

I was watching a talk show yesterday, featuring the subject of making one's body look better than it actually is.  (What woman can resist that?)  It turned out the secret was in one's undergarments.

One of the undergarments in question was a bra that not only lifted the girls but squeezed them together to make the cleavage appear deeper.  I remember, years back, advertisements for a bra that lifted and separated the girls.  (Only they weren't called girls back then.)

So, in one generation, we're supposed to lift and separate.  In the next, we're supposed to lift and squeeze together.  Is it any wonder that my breasts are confused?  I'm thinking of taking them in for therapy, but I'm not sure where to go.  Should I go to a psychologist for breasts?  Or should I head to a breast surgeon?  Not for surgery, you understand, but for counseling for my girls.  It's a ponderment, all right.

Gem for the day:  lifted and separated, or lifted and squeezed, my girls are happiest when they hang free.

Day 141, October 11

Finding the right pair of jeans is no easy feat.  Women struggle to find just that pair that will make our booty look tight, firm, and sassy.  My booty gave up tight with the first pregnancy.  Firm went the way of the second.  Sassy followed with the third.  The fourth pregnancy finished off any hope my booty ever had of recovering its former tightness, firmness, and sassiness.

So what's a poor, menopausal woman to do to find those oh-so-elusive perfect jeans?  The fashion industry has come out with a solution:  pajama jeans.  That these look like sloppy sweat pants dyed denim-blue should not deter us from embracing them ... or, more precisely, them embracing our backsides.

Our world will be perfect, we're told, if we only buy a pair of pajama jeans.  Never mind that they cost $40 or so.  Never mind that they will stretch like a cheap bra.  Never mind that the only way my booty is going to be tight, firm, and sassy again is if I undergo a booty replacement.  But, hey, I've had hip replacement, why not a booty replacement?  Do you think insurance will cover that?

Gem for the day: wear pajama jeans at your own peril. 

Day 140, October 10

Are your hors moning?  (No, I'm not talking about whores moaning, an entirely different matter.)  I'm talking about those nifty little things inside our bodies that make us crazy, make us euphoric; make us sad; make us happy.  In short, hormones.

In my PMSing years, my hors were moning something fierce.  It got to be so bad that my husband, AKA The Wretch, blamed any world or personal catastrophe on my PMS.  The Gulf War--Jane's PMS.  The Democrats took a seat in Congress:  Jane's PMS.  Global warming:  Jane's PMS.

Now, that I've reached the menopausal state, in other words, the state of the crone, The Wretch still blames me for whatever happens.  The stock market took a dip:  Jane's menopause.  Business went down last quarter:  Jane's menopause.  Al Gore appeared in a Speedo:  Jane's menopause.

Gem for the day.  Hormones are like men:  can't live with 'em' can't live without 'em.

Day 139, October 9

When I was in junior high (somewhere after the cooling of the earth), girls were taught to be soft and feminine and stupid.  That's right:  we were told we should be stupid so as not to intimidate the poor male of the species.  Do you know what?  I fell for it.  I downplayed my brains (I did have some back then) and worked hard to appear the quintessential dumb blonde.

The trouble is, the kind of boy who is attracted to stupid is not someone you want to hang around with.  Fast-forward a few years to college (this is around the time that man first moseyed on out from his cave to slay a beast and bring it home for his loved ones), and I discovered the book THE FASCINATING GIRL.  Even now, I shudder in remembrance of actually reading that drivel.

Once again, girls were taught to dumb down, to be childish and foolish.  Within a few years, I had married and found the sequel to TFG:  THE FASCINATING WOMAN.  Same stuff, only this time geared to the married woman.

Feminism had come in to full bloom by this time, and I started exploring the dark side.  Rather than being told to be stupid, we were told to be men.  (And how is that different, I wanted to ask.)  Feminists maintained that, to be equal to men, we must act like them, talk like them, and dress like them. 

Thought for the day:   I don't need to be stupid. And I don't need to be a man.  I just need to be me. 

Day 138, October 8

As a young mother, I was always nagging my kids.

Eat your vegetables.
Do your homework.
Brush your teeth.
Go to the bathroom before we leave for church


And then there were the don'ts.

Don't run with scissors.
Don't stick your elbow in your brother's ear.
Don't write on the walls with indelibile marker.

Now, my children are gone, but I'm still a nag.  My husband is the current target, and  I had to adapt my nagging to a more subtle form:

Did you take your blood pressure medicine?
Did you take your diabetes medicine?
Did you remember to set the alarm?
Did you take out the trash?
Did you sign the birthday card for your father?

And so it goes.

Gem for the day:  don't be ashamed of your nagging.  Without a mother's (or wife's) nagging, the world would cease to rotate.

Day 137, October 7

At one point in my life, I was rash enough to ask my husband (and I KNOW I should never ask him anything), "Am I weird?"

"You're not weird.  Just mildly eccentric."  That was one of his better days. 

I've progressed since then.  I no longer ask if I'm weird.  I know that I am.  What's more, I'm all right with it.  I figure we've all got our share of weirdness floating around in our brains.  Why should I be any different?

So, if you wonder if anyone else tops cantaloupe with pickles or makes prank phone calls to friends asking them if "they've paid their sex tax today,"' just know that you're okay.

Thought for the day:  embrace your inner weirdness.

Day 136, October 6

You've doubtless heard of the Red Hat Society.  I used to belong to a Red Hat chapter, before we disbanded.  I miss hanging out with other Red Hatters, or Mad-Hatters as we used to call ourselves.  Mostly, I miss dressing up in purple clothes and red hats with feathers, a boa tossed about my shoulders in an ever-so-casual manner.

Red Hatters had THE WAVE down pat.  As one friend taught us,

"Touch your pearls.
Blow a kiss,
Wave your hand,
And turn your wrist."

This is the wave of beauty pageant contestants and the Queen Mother of England.  Done properly, THE WAVE never stirs the air.  It is a regal gesture, with just a hint of disdain in it.

Our Red Hat chapter had a queen, a queen of vice, a secretary, and a treasurer.  I had a special position:  that of naughty poetess.  How I came by that is still a mystery to me.

I was sorry to see enthusiasm for Red Hats die.  We menopausers need a reminder that we're important, that we're here, and that we can still cause trouble!

Day 135, October 5

Women of my generation were taught to be quiet, be demure, be invisible.  We never raised our voices.  We never said "no" to any outlandish request put upon us.  We never talked back.

Thank heavens, I've grown out of that.  It took marriage (to an engineer, which says so much), five children, and a cat of royal lineage to convince me that hey, I can say "No" sometimes.  In fact, I can say "Hell, no" when someone decides that I should be their doormat.

I'm ashamed to admit that finding that self-respect has taken me a lifetime, but now that it's here, it's here to stay.   I credit menopause for that.  (Well, menopause and finally growing a backbone.)

Day 134, October 4

I do not have an hourglass figure.  My sands keep shifting.  In an effort to combat the sand that had shifted from her upper half to my lower half, I bought a pair of silicone breasts.  (They even things out on top and bottom.)   These are nifty little things, which tuck ever so neatly inside my bra.

The only problem is that the silicone picks up the heat from my body.  As someone who is known as "Hot Flash Hannah," I don't need anything else producing heat.  I put my thinking cap on and came up with a solution:  I store my breasts in the refrigerator.  This makes them cool to the touch and they feel delightful when cozied up to the girls.

My husband, wretch that he is, took umbrage at my storing my breasts in the fridge.  "Jane," he asked, "why are your breasts in the refrigerator?"

I explained, very kindly, I thought, about the heat problem.  He only shook his head.  "Are you sure that it's good for them to be in the refrigerator?"

"Of course it's good for them."  (He'd never shown that much consideration for my real breasts, but all of a sudden, he's concerned with my fake boobs?  C'mon.  Give me a break.)

The fake girls now have a permanent spot on our fridge.  They rest there until they are taken out for use.  Feel free to copy my idea if you desire.

Day 133, October 3

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:
I don't want to brag or make anyone jealous or anything,
but I can still fit into the earrings I wore in high school.

 

A menopausal friend sent this to me.  (Do you notice how I seem to have friends who send such things to me?  No one ever sends me spiritual, uplifting things.  Go figure.)

 

Isn't it wonderful when we can still fit into SOMEthing that we wore in high school?  As I think about the size I was in high school (skinny) and what I am now, I realize I'm lucky I can still fit through a doorway.

So if there's anything, anything at all, that still fits, you better believe that I'm going to grab on to it and broadcast it to the world.   

Day 132, October 2

"I find it helpful to organize my tasks into categories:  things I won't do now, things I won't do later, things I'll never do."--Maxine

Have you noticed how often I quote Maxine?  As I've said before, she is my role model.

What things won't I do now?
Get a bikini wax.  (Ouch!)
Tattoo my husband's name across my tush.
Pose for Playboy.  (Only because they haven't asked.)

Things I won't do later:
Get a bikini wax.
Tattoo my husband's name across my tush.
Pose for Playboy.

Things I won't do later:
Get a bikini wax.
Tattoo my husband's name across my tush.
Pose for Playboy.

It's nice to know that I'm consistent.

 

Day 131, October 1

A friend sent me the following email:

Remember, dogs and cats are better than kids because they:

(1) eat less,

(2) don't ask for money all the time,

(3) are easier to train,

(4) normally come when called,

(5) never ask to drive the car,

(6) don't hang out with drug-using people;

(7) don't smoke or drink,

(8) don't want to wear your clothes,

(9) don't have to buy the latest fashions,

(10) don't need a gazillion dollars for college and

(11) and if they get pregnant, you can sell their children.

 

 

For a menopausal woman, whose grown children constantly point to her and blame her for all the problems in their lives, this email is balm to her (my) heart.  I know that my cat loves me despite my neuroses, psychoses, and  general goofiness.   Too bad I can't say the same for my children!