Sunday, August 11, 2013

Day 240, August 11

The other day I was watching a talk show where the hostess and her guests went on and on about the "plight of the working mother."

"Society has failed the working mother," one guest said.  "We need to have infrastructures in place to help her."

I wanted to slam my fist through the television screen.  "Every mother's a working mother," I shouted to the dumb-as-dirt hostess and her equally dumb-as-dirt guests.  I don't know of one mother who isn't a working mother.  Whether she works inside the home or outside, she's a working mother.

So, what does this have to do with menopause?  Nothing.  And everything.  Because most menopausers were at one time or other a working mother.  And guess what?  We're still working, as mothers, as grandmothers, as church members, as volunteers.

Gem for the day:  if some dumb-ass person talks about "the plight of the working mother," tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Day 239, August 10

Yesterday we talked about prolasped uteruses.  (Is the plural of uterus uteri?)   It got to me to thinking (once again the strangest things get me to thinking) about prolasped breasts.  My breasts prolasped sometime around 29 years ago when I was nursing our fourth child, Hyrum.

Hyrum was a world-class nurser.  (Sort of like some cats are world class mousers.)  Anyway, Hyrum sucked the girls until they resembled nothing so much as deflated balloons.  Prolasped, indeed.  They had lasped, prolasped, and exlasped

Gem for the day:  if your breasts are prolasped, don't get a boob job.  They're expensive and you may need the money for a facelift.  Stick a pair of gym socks in your bra and call it good.

Friday, August 9, 2013

Day 238, August 9

Is your uterus prolasped?  According to television commericals, if it's not, it ought to be.  Ambulance chasing lawyers want your uterus to be prolasped. 

I don't know about you, but I get aggravated when someone tells me that my uterus ought to be prolasped for their own financial gain.  Don't I have enough problems, with sagging breasts, two stomachs, and hips that have their own zip code?  Must I add a prolasped uterus to the list?

Gem for the day:  if someone asks if your uterus is prolasped, tell them that their judgment is lapsed.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Day 237, August 8

A good friend who serves in our church's stake presidency (a stake is a geographical organization of wards) recently told The Wretch and me about his meeting with a church authority.  This good man said, "Brother, no matter how good a husband you think you are, you aren't."  Even more significant, this man got the advice from President and Prophet Thomas S. Monson.

The Wretch made a mistake and told me about this.  Of course I will never forget it.  More, I will never let HIM forget it.   Now, if he does something not too terrible, I can remind him "No matter how good a husband you think you are, you aren't."

What right-thinking woman doesn't love that?  What right-thinking woman won't remember it forever and ever?  And what right-thinking woman won't remind her mate of it forever and ever?

Not this one.  That's for damned sure.

Gem for the day:  if your mate does something nice, thank him prettily for it and then remind him of President Monson's counsel.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Day 236, August 7

The other day, The Wretch and I had another of our engineer/writer conversations.  I innocently mentioned that I'd used his radiant heat transfer nonsense in this blog.

He, male that he is, became defensive and said, "You obviously don't appreciate physics."  He's right.  I don't appreciate physics.  But that's beside the point.

Can you bear to hear another of our conversations?

The Wretch:  There are three kinds of heat transfer:  conductive, convective, and radiant.  What you're feeling in the sun is radiant.

Me:  Oh.

The Wretch:  As I explained earlier, you only THINK you're hotter in the sun.

Me:  (Wiping away copious amounts of sweat, only THINKING that I'm hot.)  Thank you for explaining it so clearly.

The Wretch.  Glad to be of help.

Me:  I'm not saying that I'm hot, but do you think we could get out of this damned radiant heat transfer?

The Wretch:  As long as you're not saying you're hot, yes.

Me:  I AM NOT HOT.   Now, get me out of this radiant heat transfer before I'm parbroiled.

The Wretch:  Of course, my love.

Gem for the day:  don't tell your mate that you're hot in the sun.  Men just don't get it.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Day 235, August 6

I've been known to be a tifle naughty.  There was the time that I told everyone in our ward that our 80 year old friend Dorothy had taken up dancing at Hooters to make some "pin money."  There was the time I told everyone that my sister had put herself through school by pole dancing. 

Then there was the time that I told friends that our father had suffered a case of amnesia and had had a love child.  (Really there was a good excuse for that one:  my sister and I were with her six-foot plus son who looked way too old to be her son and my nephew, so I had to quickly think of a reason why he looked like us and came up with the idea that he was our father's "wrong-side-of-the-blanket child."  My father was with us at the time and just smiled.  I don't think he heard me._

Finally, there is right now when I tell everyone who knows my sister that she has seven lovers.  It's all right.  She's a widow.

Gem for the day:  if you're going to be naughty, do it with a smile.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Day 234, August 5

At my last birthday (just last week), I told my friends that I was going to be more sedate and spiritual and just all-around wonderful.  One friend, a wise woman who has known me for many years, said, "Jane, I've heard that before."

I thought back and realized that I'd said the same thing on my last five birthdays.  Obviously it hasn't taken.  What can I say?  I'd blame it on my failing memory, but that excuse only stretches so far.

Gem for the day:  if you're going to make high-falutin' promises, tell them to friends who have worse memories than your own!

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Day 233, August 4

The Wretch and I have been married for forty years.  We are still together for a variety of reasons, the primary of which is that we know that no one else would have us.  That's all right.  We rub along pretty well together.

However, The Wretch has this annoying habit of speaking like the engineer he is.  A case in point is the weather.

Our conversation goes something like this:

Me:   Let's walk down this street.  There're more trees and the shade makes it cooler.

The Wretch:  It's not really cooler.  You just think it is.

Me:  It is definitely cooler in the shade.

The Wretch:  No.  What you're feeling when you're in the sun is only radiant heat transfer.  The temperature is the same whether you're in the shade or the sun.

Me:  Feel the back of my neck.  When I'm in the sun, it's hot.

The Wretch:  It's all in your mind.

Me:  Could we walk down the street with the trees?  I like the view.

The Wretch:  Why didn't you just say so in the first place?

Gem for the day:  don't try to to have  an intelligent conversation with an engineer.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Day 232, August 3

Another problem menopausers have is that we are usually linked with menopause mates.  Mind you, this is not altogether bad.  However, it can have its drawbacks, such as when we start to look like each other.

The Wretch and I are both sort of pudgy around the middle.  We both have once blonde hair that is more gray and white than blonde now.  We both have our hair cut very short.  We both have pasty white skin.

As if this weren't enough, we have a cat who is also starting to look like us.  She, too, is a bit pudgy around the middle.  She too has hair where gray and white are making their presence known.  She isn't pasty white, but, I figure, give her time.  It will come.

Gem for the day:  if you and your mate start looking like each other, smile and think, "Wow, do I ever have good taste."

Friday, August 2, 2013

Day 231, August 2

One of the problems that "pops up" as a woman ages is flatulence at the most inconvenient, embarrassing times.  This particular phenomenon makes itself known especially if one bends over. 


There's no blaming it on the dog, especially when one doesn't have a dog.  And I can hardly blame it on my sweet kitty.  No, I must own it. 

Gem for the day:  if gas is a problem for you, avoid vegetables and stick with chocolate.  Chocolate is a known gas-inhibitor!

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Day 230, August 1

Well, we're back to suffering for beauty.  (Frankly I don't want to suffer for beauty.  I've suffered for duty.  That's enough.)

But some women are made of heartier stock than I.  Take, for instance, the practice of sticking your feet in to a basin filled with tiny flesh-eating fish.  These fish nibble off the rough, dry skin so that only soft, baby-like skin remains on your feet.

Really?  Why not just stick your feet into a pirranha-infested river?

My feet have enough problems without sticking them into a school of flesh-eating fish.

Gem for the day:  if someone tells you to "suffer for beauty," tell him where to stick it.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Day 229, July 31

Today is my birthday.

It's one of those benchmark birthdays, the one where I can take Social Security if I choose to.  (Damn.  I feel old even writing that.)  When I asked The Wretch how much SS I would get, he said, "Well, you always did say you could do a lot with a quarter."

I CAN do a lot with a quarter.  But even I cannot live on a quarter a month.  Oh, well, maybe I can make up for my lack of paying work with my beauty, spirituality, and intelligence.

Gem for the day:  If you can't live on your SS, you can alway supplement it by hiring out for sex!

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Day 228, July 30

Today's subject is a trifle naughty.  If you feel you can't handle naughty, feel free to skip this.

With that preface, let's get to it.

Have you noticed how men are wont to name their "parts?"  What's with that?  Why would you name a body part?  Occasionally, I refer to my breasts as "the girls," but that is mostly for convenience.  You say the word "breasts" too much and you end up sounding like you're at a butcher counter ordering chicken parts.

But men feel compelled to name their male member.  I honestly don't get it.  It's as if this particular part has its own social security number, zip code, and what-have-you.  Men even talk about this part in the third person. 

My husband, The Wretch, was talking about somebody named Harry one day.  It took me forty-five minutes to realize that Harry was not a person!

Gem for the day:  if your mate starts talking about someone named Harry or Dick or John, tune out.  You won't miss a thing.

Monday, July 29, 2013

Day 227, July 29

We're back to one of my favorite subjects: weapons. Weapons, that is, for moi! (That's French for "me.")

I continue to work on The Wretch to get me a weapon. If I can't get a gun, let me have a taser. When I say taser, I mean a real, honest-to-goodness taser that shoots out little prongs that hook themselves into my target's body and level him. I don't want one of those wimpy tasers that just gives an electric shock.

The Wretch, wretch that he is, doesn't want me to even have this would-be gun. He says it's for my own protection, that I might hurt myself. Please. I managed to make it through four pregnancies that averaged 27 months apiece and he thinks I can't handle a tiny shock?

No. He's concerned about his own hide. For the life of me, I can't imagine why he's concerned IF he treats me right. And that's the sticking point. He knows he doesn't always treat me right.

Gem for the day: Once more this is for the males out there: If you don't want to be tasered by your wife, girlfriend, or live-in, don't piss her off.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Day 226, July 28

You might have noticed that I have firm feelings regarding a few subjects.  Well, truthfully, I have firm feelings regarding a LOT of subjects.  And, like the famed Maxine, my feelings are nearly always correct.  (When I say "nearly always," that is only my being modest as my feelings are always correct.)

One of the subjects on which I have firm feelings is body hair.  Who said that women have to be as smooth as a baby's behind?  At my advanced age, I calculate that I have spent at least forty years shaving some part of my body.  It is not enough now that we shave our legs, our underarms; we are now supposed to shave our nether-regions.  Really?

If we don't want to shave, we can use depilatories or have ourselves waxed.  In particular favor these days is the Brazilian wax.  Though I've never had one, I can only imagine that it starts with some sadistic Brazilian coming at me with strips of hot wax, applying them to places where wax should never be applied, and then peeling them off with a hearty grunt.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Gem for the day:  the next time someone tells you that you have to be as hairless as a hairless cat, grab your Taser and squeeze.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Day 225, July 27

Can you stand one more story about sick males, this one from contemporary times?

A woman has just come home from the hospital with her fourth child.  Her older three children all have chickenpox.  Her mate decides he has contracted chickenpox as well, though he had already had it as a child.

Husband:  (Coughs pitifully)  I think I'm coming down with the pox.

Wife:  (Patiently)  But darling, you had chickenpox as a child.  You can't get it again.

Husband:  (Snarls)  Just when did you get your medical degree?

Wife:  Why, I got my medical degree in between pregnancies, nursing, more pregnancies, more nursing, and bringing home YOUR fourth child.

Husband:  (Backing off, hands raised)  There's no need to get nasty.

Wife:  (Sweetly)  Who's being nasty?  I'm simply answering your question as to when I got my medical degree.  Now get off your keester and do the laundry you've been saving up for me.

Husband:  (Meekly)  Yes, dear.  I think I'm feeling better already.

Gem for the day:  Sometimes you have to use tough love.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Day 224, July 26

More about males with malaise:

The phenomenon of males unable to handle the barest of sniffles dates back to caveman times.

I imagine the conversation between the stricken cave-male and his long suffering cave-mate went something like this:

Caveman:  Me no feel good.

Cavewoman:  Me sorry.

Caveman:  Bring cloth soaked in coconut oil for my chest.

Cavewoman:  (muttering) Me do.  (She proceeds to climb tree, retrieve coconut, press out oil, dip cloth into it, then spread it on to her man's chest.)

Caveman:  Me still no feel good.

Cavewoman:  Take bow and arrow and shoot food. 

Caveman:  Me too sick to use bow and arrow.

Cavewoman:  Give me arrow.  Me know where to put it.  (Where the sun don't shine.)

Gem for the day:  men will always be the weaker sex.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Day 223, July 25

What words are most likely to strike terror in a woman's breast? 

"Honey, I don't feel so hot," as uttered by her beloved.

If you hear these words, if you even THINK you might hear these words, run, don't walk, out of the house, get in your car, and check yourself into a hotel  (using HIS credit card, of course) until you think your significant other has recovered from whatever real or imagined ailment has beset him.

This counsel applies not just to menopausers, but to every woman.  For there is nothing more pitiful (and annoying) than a male who thinks he might have a sniffle.

Wives and mothers have suffered through all manner of sicknesses, including childbirth, with scarcely a word of complaint.  Mothers, in particular, have no choice but to get up and take care of the children, even if they are falling down sick.  Men, on the other hand, have only to sneeze and they take to their beds with a litany of complaints, moans, and groans. 

They assume a voice that grates on even the most patient woman's soul.  "If I hear that voice one more time, I'm going to murder him while he sleeps," one wife confided to me.

Loyal friend that I am, I offered her the use of the big hole in our back yard where she could dispose of the body.

Gem for the day:  I repeat:  run, don't walk, from a male with the sniffles.  You'll thank me later.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Day 222, July 24

More about my reign as king of the world.

-Rapists, child molesters, and wife abusers would be Bobbit-ized.

-Men who didn't pay child support would be dealt with in a similar manner.

-As would drunk drivers.

-All public buildings would be required to double the number of women's restrooms.

-If they do not comply, men's restrooms would be converted to those for women.

I can hear your applause now for these outstanding ideas.

Gem for the day:  cast your vote for me right away..

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Day 221, July 23

I sometimes fantasize about what I would do if I were king of the world.  (Really, I'd be queen, but king sounds more ... well, more kingly.) 

One of the first things I would do is to do away with temperature gauges which continually insult and assault my intelligence by telling me that it is 72 degrees when I know for a fact that it is at least a 102 degrees.  Banks, in particular, delight in posting these false temperatures.

Why am I up in arms about this?  Because when I'm in the car with The Wretch (aka my beloved), I frequently turn the AC down, wanting more cool air.  He, wretch that he is, objects and invariably points to a convenient temperature posting, saying, "See, it's barely 70 out."


That place between the girls (my breasts) and the nape of my neck tell me that it's at least 110.  These internal themometers are never wrong.  They register temperatures with unerring accuracy.

Gem for the day:  when you see a posted temperature that you know is wrong, you can be sure that it was set by a man.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Day 220, July 22

I know--all of you think I don't have a serious thought in my head and that I'm a frivolous old woman who rants about anything from the TSA to menopausal husbands.  The truth is, too often my heart is burdened. 

One of the things that many menopausers have endured is the heartache of watching a child go through a painful divorce.  It is something I never thought would happen in our family, yet it did.

I cried with my grown son when he called to say that his wife had left him and their two little boys.  My heart broke with his.  He survived, stayed close to the Lord, and is remarried to a lovely woman who shares his commitment to family. 

Gem for the day:  even frivolous old women like me know heartache.  Be kind to us.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Day 219, July 21

Most women know that the acronym LBD stands for "little black dress."  Most of us have or have had such a dress in our wardrobes.  It is a staple of the well-dressed woman.

Now that I am firmly in the grips of menopause, I realize that LBD can stand for something much more relevant:  lumpy, bumpy, and dumpy.  In some circles, this is known as the "umpies."  Yes, the little black dress has given way to the big black dress with its attendant lumps, bumps, and dumpiness.  It's not a particularly palatable realization, but there you have it.

Gem for the day:  when your LBDs get you down, treat them with a big helping of Ben and Jerry's.  It won't smooth out the lumps, bumps, and dumpiness, but it sure goes down smooth.

Saturday, July 20, 2013

Day 218, July 20

It appears that we have not yet left the subject of guns.  The other day, a friend showed The Wretch and me a few samples of his gun collection.  I salivated with pleasure, especially when he put this relatively small one in my hand.  (My poor old arthritic hands can't handle anything too heavy these days.)

The gun wasn't anything special to look at.  It was black, had a plastic handle, looked much like a toy gun you might get at Wal-Mart or Target.  However, I felt its power.

I learned that it could hold 19 bullets in its magazine.  I was now drooling with the "I-wants."  Even though I'm not a good shot, I figure I could hit my intended target with 19 tries, if I were close enough to it.  The Wretch looked a trifle scared as I sighted the gun and aimed it at his parts.

Gem for the day:  make sure you choose a gun you can hold comfortably in one hand.  You need the other to hold your designer purse.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Day 217, July 19

I'm a peace-loving, mild-mannered, some might even say demure wife, mother, and grandmother.  Sometimes, though, something raises my ire.  In particular, that something is often my beloved.   You know who I mean--The Wretch.

The Wretch can be, at times, loving, generous, and kind.  At other times, he can be a pain in the patookus.  (That's ass for those who don't know the previous word.)  At these times, I want to shoot him where it hurts.

This may be why The Wretch doesn't want me to have a gun, even after I've asked repeatedly on those gift-giving occasions, such as birthdays and Christmas, for said gun.  It doesn't have to be a big or expensive.  Something small and business-like that I can tuck in a designer purse would be just fine.

The Wretch claims I wouldn't be responsible with a gun.  I beg to differ.  Sure, I'd be responsible.  I'd shoot only those persons who deserved shooting.  What could be more responsible than that?

Gem for the day:  This is for the husbands and significant others:  if you don't want to get shot by your wife, don't piss her off.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Day 216, July 18

I know, I know.  I've belabored the TSA thing.  It's not like I don't know that the TSA can and does harass people aside from us menopausers.  It's just that I think women of a certain age deserve a bit more respect than being herded through the porno-scanner or patted down like common criminals.  (Well, really everyone deserves more respect than that.)

After all, it is the menopausers who have seen 60 or so years of history.  We weathered Viet Nam, Woodstock, and Watergate.  We endured teenagers, menopausal husbands, and in-laws.  And we continue to endure.

So pardon me while I whine about the lack of respect we're shown.  In a word, we've been "dissed."

Gem for the day:  hold your head proudly, sister menopausers.  You rock.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Day 215, July 17

Can you stand one more TSA story?

On yet another flight I was once more pulled aside by the Underwear Police.  This time it was--you guessed it--my underwire bra that lit up the sensors. 

My underwire bra, despite being a sweat magnet, is necessary to corral the girls.  It keeps them somwhere close to where they ought to be.  (Once a woman reaches a mature age, her breasts tend to wander.)

Usually my underwire bra passes security.  After all, don't most of us wear them?  This time, though, it failed to pass.  And once more I was subjected to the pat down.

 My breasts have been felt up (or patted down) more times in airports than they ever have been at home or at my yearly mammogram. 

Gem for the day:  when you're flying, go commando (sans underwear).  Obviously the TSA cannot handle a mature woman's underwear.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Day 214, July 16

One more airport security experience to share.

On my last trip, I was stopped by the underwear police.  Again.  However, that was not the end of the TSA's invasion of my person.  I went through the porno-scanner (and really, who wants to see the lumps and bumps of a decidedly middle age woman?).  Suddenly lights were flashing and I was pulled, roughly, aside.

Agent:  Ma'am,"  (why am I always "Ma/am" to TSA people?).  You've set off all kinds of hot spots.  I think it's your sweater.  (My sweater had some sparkly things on it.)

Me:  I'm sorry.

Agent:  We're going to have to give you a full body pat down.

Me (resigned):  Have at it.

Agent:  I'm going to go over your breasts, your buttocks, up and down your legs until I can't go any further.

What I wanted to say was "Have fun."  Prudence kept me silent.

Agent:  I will be using the back of my hand.

Really?  That makes it better?

Agent:  I'm patting under your breasts now.

Me:  I'm wearing an underwire bra.
Agent:  I know.  Please be silent.

Agent:  I'm patting your buttocks now.

Agent:  I'm patting between your legs.

I've had pelvic exams that were less invasive.

Agent:  I'm done.  It looks like you're clean.

Me:  Do I really look like a terrorist?

Agent:  You never can tell.

Gem for the day:  If you're flying, leave the sparkly stuff at home.  You'll get more than you bargained for otherwise.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Day 213, July 15

Have you noticed that flyling has just gotten to be hard work any more?  Never mind having to get to the airport a half a day early so that you have time to go through security.  Now you have to go through a porno-scanner to get through  security.  Still, I was handling it.  That is, until I was stopped by a bored looking TSA agent.

TSA Agent:   "Ma'am, the scanner says you have something on under your pants."

Me (whispering):  "It's my underwear."

Agent:  "Why is your underwear down by your knees?"

Those of you who are Mormon will understand.  Our underwear does come down to our knees.

Me:  "It's long underwear."

Agent:  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to pat you down."  She proceeded to pat my legs.  Sure enough she found the edge of my underwear binding against the roles of fat above my knee.    "Okay.  I guess you're all right."  Giving me the evil eye, she sent me on my way.

Gem for the day:  If you're going through airport security, think carefully about your underwear choices.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Day 212, July 14

Yesterday I wrote about the intricacies of removing a bra in public.  Then there is the other "end" of things:  removing panty hose while driving a car.  (I thought this particularly appropriate for today, since it's Sunday and many of us are driving to and from church.)

I haven't done it recently as it requires more flexibiity than my poor old body can summon these days.  If you are interested, though, here are the steps.

-Set your car for cruise control.  (This is crucial.)

-Position your knees so that they are steering the car, leaving your hands free.

-With your right hand, reach under your skirt and tug the right hip and leg of said hose down. 

-Repeat this procedure with the left.

-Elevate your ass slightly above the car seat and wiggle the hose the rest of the way down.

-Kick your shoes off, along with the offending panty hose.

-Replace your shoes.

-Resume your normal driving position.

Gem for the day:  if your panty hose offend thee, pluck them out.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Day 211, July 13

I realize that I may have offended some of you dear ladies yesterday with my rant about the church thermostat.  If so, I apologize.  I can only say that my internal temperature registers about 120 degrees.

I've thought of removing some articles of clothing while at church, but I'm wondering what that would be.  The obvious is my underwire bra.  That miracle of engineering and micro-fiber keeps the girls from flopping around, but it does trap the heat.  Specifically, sweat gathers right along the underwire.  Not a pleasant sensation.

Have you ever removed a bra while in polite company?  Let me tell you, it takes some maneuvering.  First, you slip one strap over your shoulder, followed by the other.  Surreptitiously, you unhook the back of it.  then you slide the whole thing down and pull it out from underneath your blouse or top and stash it in your purse or your husband's suit pocket if you don't have a purse.  (If you're wearing a dress, forget about it.  You're screwed.)

Gem for the day:  forget the bra and let the girls flop.  You and they will be happier.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Day 210, July 12

The heat makes me cranky.  Really, just about anything these days makes me cranky, but, what the hell, it's July so I'm blaming the heat. 

Those of you who also suffer from heat induced crankiness may relate when I tell you the story of the thermostat wars in our church.  A certain element (including me) likes the thermostat set to meat-locker-coolness.  Another element prefers the thermostat set to broil-a-chicken temperature. 

Each Sunday one lady will surreptitiously turn down the thermostat.  Along comes another lady who sets it back up.  It would be comical if it weren't for those of us whose temperatures are plummeting then rising then plummeting again.  

Gem for the day:  if you're cold in church, wear a sweater.  There's a limit to what the rest of us can take off.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Day 209, July 11

Well, we're back to skin care.  Again.

Have you heard what Japanese women do keep their skin ultra soft and white?  They use the execrement of nightingales.  If you don't know what excrement is, it's plain, old-fashioned poop. 

I'm willing to do a lot in the name of beauty, but I'm not willing to go around scooping up nightingale poop.  And where do you store it once you've gotten it?  The refrigerator?  I hope not.  But the stuff will probably go bad if you just leave it at room temperature.  Maybe you can have a separate refrigerator for skin care goop, such as sheep placenta and nightingale poop.  Something to ponder ...

Gem for the day:  if you're willing to scoop up poop, you qualify for pioneer woman status.

(PS  Did you notice that goop and poop rhyme?  The writer in me loves that.)

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Day 208, July 10

My failing memory does not register if I explained how I came upon the name "The Wretch" for my beloved.  It's a sweet story, if I do say so myself. 

The Wretch and I just celebrated our 40th anniversary a few months ago.  We have always had pet names for each other.  These names have evolved over the years, along with our bodies, our minds, and our good natures.  He used to call me his sex goddess.  Lately,  he has started referring to me as "Geezer."

Such a loving appellation deserves an equally loving one.  Hence, The Wretch.  (I figure I'm in good company.  Phyllis Diller referred to her husband as Fang.)

Gem for the day:  if your significant other gives you a name, give it right back to him.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Day 207, July 9

I just can't pull myself away from the subject of skin, specifically my skin, wrinkled mass that it is.  Today's subject is pores.  What do we do with them?  Where do we put them?  How can we remove them?

Pores are those teeny, tiny holes in your face that suck in every bit of dirt, sweat, makeup, cream, air pollution, and a host of other nasties.  At one time I prided myself that I didn't have many pores.  Then The Wretch pointed them out to me.  All of a sudden, I had hundreds of the little rascals populating my face.

May I point out that The Wretch did not notice my pores until he started wearing glasses?

Gem for the day:  stay away from people who wear glasses or have perfect eyesight.  Only associate with those whose vision is as poor as your own.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Day 206, July 8

I seem obsessed these days with restoring my skin to its once youthful firmness and glow.  This has been prompted by several events--the TV show I mentioned yesterday with its sheep placenta, being bombarded with ads for every cream under the sun, and, finally by The Wretch's comments that I had officially entered geezer-dom.  (Is it any wonder I refer to him as The Wretch?)

I've tried my own restoratives and hit upon what I think is a winner.  Crisco.  Yes, good, old-fashioned Crisco.  Slather it on your face at night and you'll have skin as soft as a baby's behind in the morning.  Of course, you'll ruin your pillowcases and sheets, but, after all, sacrifices must be made in the name of beauty.

Gem for the day:  Crisco (I buy the dollar store stuff) is a hell of a lot cheaper than raising your own sheep to get that placenta.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Day 205, July 7

Once again, the Menopause Monocler took some days (as in 6 months) off.  But she's back.  And does she have some observations for you.

The other day I was channel surfing and came upon a talk show where the topic was turning back the hands on time on our faces.  (That's going to be a whole lot of turning in my case.)  The big news was using sheep placenta to restore youthful glow and firmness.

Really?  Sheep placenta?

The host did not say where we would get such placenta, and I had visions of my wrestling some more unsuspecting pregnant sheep to the ground, (gently) inducing labor, and then making away with her placenta.  After all, what was she going to do with it?  Bury it in the ground and plant a tree over it?

That begs the question, what do I do with said placenta?  I assume that I would slap it on my face, wait for it to do its magic, then scrub my face until it was raw to get all that blood and guck off.  Seems like that would defeat the whole purpose of restoring oils and nutrients to my prune like skin.

Gem for the day:  if someone suggests you use sheep placenta on your face, ask them who's going to go get it.