Yesterday I wrote about having lunch with a friend the day before. In between my teasing the waitress and manager about being carded if we ordered a drink, my friend and I discussed her upcoming "women's health appointment." In case you're wondering, that's code for the YPE (yearly pelvic exam).
I've blogged about that particular pleasure in past posts. As we talked, I picked up the cocktail napkin, about two inches square, and said, "This is what they give you to cover yourself with."
My friend nodded. "It's going to take a hell of a lot napkins to cover me." Then she lowered her voice and added another insight. (Did I mention that, like me, she is exceptionally wise?) "You know those half gowns they give you to cover your upper half? Do you sweat through yours?"
"Like a fieldhand in an Arizona summer." The paper gowns, made out of the cheapest paper available, dissolve at the least hint of moisture, AKA sweat. And what woman, with her feet up in the air, her private parts exposed, and a doctor sticking an ice cold speculum up her business, isn't sweating like a pig?
Gem for the day: before you go for your next YPE, consider taking a shot of tequila.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Day 167, November 6
Yesterday I had lunch with a friend. We are both "women of a certain age." A sign at the restaurant proclaiming the need to "card" anyone appearing to be under 21, prompted me to ask the sweet waitress, "If my friend and I ordered margaritas, would you card us?"
She gave me a blank look.
"We want to be carded," I said. It so happens that neither my friend nor I drink anything stronger than lemonade, but, still, I wanted to know that if we were to order a drink, that she would do us the courtesy of carding us.
"Uh, sure."
"That was naughty," my friend said when the waitress departed.
She was right. It was naughty. But then so am I.
Shortly afterward we had finished our meal, the manager squatted down at the end of our booth. "I'm new here and I just wanted to see how your dining experience was."
"Everything was great," I assured him. "The food, the service. There was just one thing, though."
A look of conern creased his smoother-than-smooth forehead. (Did I mention that he looked to be the age of my 9 year old grandson?) "What's that?"
"The waitress didn't want to card us if we ordered drinks."
Bemusement clouded his eyes. "Did you want to order drinks?"
"No. We just wanted her to card us."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Gem for the day: if you want to be carded, choose a place where the waitstaff and manager have really poor eyesight.
She gave me a blank look.
"We want to be carded," I said. It so happens that neither my friend nor I drink anything stronger than lemonade, but, still, I wanted to know that if we were to order a drink, that she would do us the courtesy of carding us.
"Uh, sure."
"That was naughty," my friend said when the waitress departed.
She was right. It was naughty. But then so am I.
Shortly afterward we had finished our meal, the manager squatted down at the end of our booth. "I'm new here and I just wanted to see how your dining experience was."
"Everything was great," I assured him. "The food, the service. There was just one thing, though."
A look of conern creased his smoother-than-smooth forehead. (Did I mention that he looked to be the age of my 9 year old grandson?) "What's that?"
"The waitress didn't want to card us if we ordered drinks."
Bemusement clouded his eyes. "Did you want to order drinks?"
"No. We just wanted her to card us."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Gem for the day: if you want to be carded, choose a place where the waitstaff and manager have really poor eyesight.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Day 166, November 5
Are you as weary as I am of political ads telling women how they should feel? We're told how we should feel about contraception, abortion, and any number of other private matters. Because I have a rebellious streak (really it's more than a streak; it's all through me), I resent having someone else telling me how I should feel.
With many decades under my belt (and my chin), I have had time to figure out how I feel about things. Especially intimate matters. I don't need or want a politician speaking for me. I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself. So when I hear that I should be outraged over one candidate's position on birth control, I want to ask "Are you talking about the missionary position or a different one?"
I know, that's really naughty of me. What can I say? Too long without estrogen.
Gem for the day: if someone tells you what you ought to feel, tell them to stick it where the sun don't shine.
With many decades under my belt (and my chin), I have had time to figure out how I feel about things. Especially intimate matters. I don't need or want a politician speaking for me. I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself. So when I hear that I should be outraged over one candidate's position on birth control, I want to ask "Are you talking about the missionary position or a different one?"
I know, that's really naughty of me. What can I say? Too long without estrogen.
Gem for the day: if someone tells you what you ought to feel, tell them to stick it where the sun don't shine.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Day 165, November 4
My mother was Tennessee born and bred. Southerners have their own language. One of my mother's favorite expressions was "Don't be ugly."
Being ugly meant bad-mouthing someone (unless you preface it with "Bless her heart), being selfish, being mean, just being plain old nasty. Unfortunately, I have been ugly plenty of times in my life. Mostly it was unintentional, but sometimes my "uglies" came out deliberately. (Just ask my ex-daughter in law.) I was ugly with her. I was ugly with the women who fleeced my father of his life's savings. I tend to be downright ornery and ugly to anyone who hurts my family. (It's that mama grizzly thing.)
So, okay, that's nothing to brag about. And I'm not really bragging, just 'fessing up to the uglies in me. I want to plead it's genetic, what with my southern roots and all. But then there's my Aunt Mae, also Tennessee born and bred, who hasn't an ugly bone in her body.
Gem for the day: the uglies will get you if you don't watch out.
Being ugly meant bad-mouthing someone (unless you preface it with "Bless her heart), being selfish, being mean, just being plain old nasty. Unfortunately, I have been ugly plenty of times in my life. Mostly it was unintentional, but sometimes my "uglies" came out deliberately. (Just ask my ex-daughter in law.) I was ugly with her. I was ugly with the women who fleeced my father of his life's savings. I tend to be downright ornery and ugly to anyone who hurts my family. (It's that mama grizzly thing.)
So, okay, that's nothing to brag about. And I'm not really bragging, just 'fessing up to the uglies in me. I want to plead it's genetic, what with my southern roots and all. But then there's my Aunt Mae, also Tennessee born and bred, who hasn't an ugly bone in her body.
Gem for the day: the uglies will get you if you don't watch out.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Day 164, November 3
By the time a woman has reached menopause, she has attended more meetings than a southerner has said "Bless your heart." We have attended civic meetings, church meetings, and PTA meetings. We have attended meetings with our children's teachers, meetings with our children's orthodontists, and meetings with our own therapists (we have issues about meetings).
Let's go back to the church meetings. If a woman is an MMW (Mormon Menopausal Woman), she has attended thousands upon thousands of church meetings. (I did a rough calculation and figured that I had attended somewhere along the lines of 7,500 church meetings in my lifetime.) She has attended Sacrament Meetings, Sunday School Meetings, Relief Society Meetings. She has attended stake meetings, welfare meetings, and planning meetings. Just when she is about meeting-ed out, she is told she must attend a meeting about meetings.
Our family has coined a term for meeting-itis: church butt. Yes, by the time she is menopausal, an MMW has a severe case of church butt. In my usual spiritual fashion, I penned a limmerick about this condition:
In the Mormon church we meet
Till my feet are as tired as my seat.
I wouldn't complain
If it weren't for the pain
Of making my spirit so sweet.
(Please forgive the uneven meter and juvenile rhyming.)
Gem for the day: even an ample booty, like mine, won't save you from church butt.
PS Attending meetings won't get you to heaven. Sorry.
Let's go back to the church meetings. If a woman is an MMW (Mormon Menopausal Woman), she has attended thousands upon thousands of church meetings. (I did a rough calculation and figured that I had attended somewhere along the lines of 7,500 church meetings in my lifetime.) She has attended Sacrament Meetings, Sunday School Meetings, Relief Society Meetings. She has attended stake meetings, welfare meetings, and planning meetings. Just when she is about meeting-ed out, she is told she must attend a meeting about meetings.
Our family has coined a term for meeting-itis: church butt. Yes, by the time she is menopausal, an MMW has a severe case of church butt. In my usual spiritual fashion, I penned a limmerick about this condition:
In the Mormon church we meet
Till my feet are as tired as my seat.
I wouldn't complain
If it weren't for the pain
Of making my spirit so sweet.
(Please forgive the uneven meter and juvenile rhyming.)
Gem for the day: even an ample booty, like mine, won't save you from church butt.
PS Attending meetings won't get you to heaven. Sorry.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Day 163, November 2
You're learning all my secrets. My goofiness. My selfishness. My everything else-ness. That's all right. I'm getting so forgetful any more that it's all right if I spill my secrets because I'd probably blab them unknowingly anyway.
Well, here's another one: I have a sweet tooth. I love all things sugar: chocolate, cheesecake, apple pie, pumpkin roll, blueberry muffins, French toast, waffles smothered with whipped cream, and a host of other things that Dr. Oz says we should avoid like the plague.
I've never thought that last made much sense as I've never encountered the plague, so how would I know how to avoid it? And why is he comparing the above delights to such a heinous thing as the plague? I don't tend to take him very seriously. You have to wonder about a grown man who runs around in his scrubs on national TV. I figure he has identity issues.
You're probably thinking: well, Jane, your sweet tooth is no secret. We see its effects--on your stomach, on your thighs, on your booty, and everywhere else.
Gem for the day: if you avoid sugar like the plague, you're probably not friends with me. Your loss.
Well, here's another one: I have a sweet tooth. I love all things sugar: chocolate, cheesecake, apple pie, pumpkin roll, blueberry muffins, French toast, waffles smothered with whipped cream, and a host of other things that Dr. Oz says we should avoid like the plague.
I've never thought that last made much sense as I've never encountered the plague, so how would I know how to avoid it? And why is he comparing the above delights to such a heinous thing as the plague? I don't tend to take him very seriously. You have to wonder about a grown man who runs around in his scrubs on national TV. I figure he has identity issues.
You're probably thinking: well, Jane, your sweet tooth is no secret. We see its effects--on your stomach, on your thighs, on your booty, and everywhere else.
Gem for the day: if you avoid sugar like the plague, you're probably not friends with me. Your loss.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Day 162, November 1
Those who know me know that I'm not a fancy person. I wear garage sale clothes, furnish my home with garage sale finds, and am generally a "Secondhand Rose."
That's fine with me. When you're a fancy person, people expect things from you. They expect you to act right and talk right and just be right. I'd rather be fun.
My family doesn't always see the fun in me. Sometimes they think I'm just goofy. There was the time that I put a garage sale sticker for twenty-five cents on the back of Larry's (aka The Wretch) shirt which he wore around for an entire day before someone commented on it. There was the time that I put a kitchen spatula (yes, I know what a spatula looks like) in the hood of my niece's jacket, which she carried around, unknowingly, for a day. Then there was the time I stuffed my bra with a large zucchini and said to my 87-year-old father, "Dad, do you notice that I've grown?" (He only shook his head in bemusement.)
As I re-read the last paragraph, I realize that I really am goofy. Oh, well. That's what happens when you are out of estrogen.
Gem for the day: forget about being right. It's a lot more fun to be goofy.
That's fine with me. When you're a fancy person, people expect things from you. They expect you to act right and talk right and just be right. I'd rather be fun.
My family doesn't always see the fun in me. Sometimes they think I'm just goofy. There was the time that I put a garage sale sticker for twenty-five cents on the back of Larry's (aka The Wretch) shirt which he wore around for an entire day before someone commented on it. There was the time that I put a kitchen spatula (yes, I know what a spatula looks like) in the hood of my niece's jacket, which she carried around, unknowingly, for a day. Then there was the time I stuffed my bra with a large zucchini and said to my 87-year-old father, "Dad, do you notice that I've grown?" (He only shook his head in bemusement.)
As I re-read the last paragraph, I realize that I really am goofy. Oh, well. That's what happens when you are out of estrogen.
Gem for the day: forget about being right. It's a lot more fun to be goofy.
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