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.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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