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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!