The bell ringers are back.  They clang those bells at every supermarket, mall, and shopping center in town.  Eventhough you may have just given money at the last place you went here is another one pleading with you for spare change at Hobby Lobby.  God help you if you just walk by, they give you their best pity smile and a “God Bless”.

Who are these people?  Does anyone know?  I have never known anyone who was a bell ringer at Christmas.  I know Phoebe was on one episode of friends, but she went a little crazy and had to be stopped.  I can’t speak for all the bell ringers everywhere, but the bell ringers in my town look like rejects from tryouts for inmates of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.  Re..jects!!  At the grocery store we have the guy that wears his hair slicked straight back then it flips greasily at the ends.  He has one wandering eye and a serious under bite.  He always wears black coveralls, but on warm days he unzips them down to his waist.  You won’t see him without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, but every hour on the hour he takes a smoke break.  I think he takes a break from smoking, goes around back and breathes clean air.  In front of the craft store is Sally.  I don’t really know what her name is.  I just remember some old television show with a character named Dirty Sally.  I think this may be her.  Sally wears a ski cap regardless of the weather.  She also sports a red flannel shit and pink polyester pants.  Her tennis shoes wore out a long time ago and her socks  went with them.  She rings a viscious bell though.  She rings it in time with the Christmas carols she sings…loudly…off-key.  She usually sings with her eyes closed, she’s so in to her music, but she nods a silent thanks with each clink of change.  The mall’s ringer changes every few hours.  My favorite is the cusser at the north entrance.  I’m 100% certain the salvation army does not know about the cusser.  I think they would take away his bell.  I give the cusser change when I have it, just to get close enough to hear him.  He’s  about five feet tall and well dressed.  He has a little bit of white scruff that shows brightly against his dark skin.  His legs bow out a lttle and his hands seem a little arthritic, and my guess is that he is of a somewhat diminished capacity.  If you walk by his kettle without putting any money in your soul is threatened with eternal damnation.  You might be called a low life son-of-a-bitch, or (this is one of his favorites) a shitty turd head.  If you have the presence of mind to put money in the kettle then you might be rewarded with one of the following:  thank you @#*damnit, God Bless you and your bastard children, or it’s about time someone put some effin money in the effin pot!  Thank you!

I do all my Christmas shopping online mostly because I don’t like inconsiderate people.  I was forced out with  public the other day.  I was looking for a Christmas gift bag.  It wasn’t even Thanksgiving and the chances of being annoyed seemed slim…right?  Wrong!!  I was in  the gift bag aisle and the bags were half-off which I didn’t know walking in.  Never go on a sale day.  It’s in the rules.  I had picked up several large bags and was working my way down to the smaller bag area.  This is when I met stay put Grandma.  

There were 3 carts in the bag aisle, Grandma and I traveling south and her someone traveling north, but parallel to her.  As I moved up Grandma’s companion moved further north to allow me to pass, but the size of bags I needed were blocked by Grandma.  I said excuse me.  Nothing.  Pardon me.  Nothing.  I tried reaching around her.  She didn’t move.  I started to pass her and another person was trying to enter the aisle. “oh my, looks like we’ve got a little log jam”, said Grandma, but she never moved.  Now my patience with this old woman has about reached it’s breaking point.  I’m maybe two seconds away from showing her a real quick way to make a cart full of granny move.  “Oh, you’re looking for a penguin bag for Jimmy?  Here’s a shark.  It’s best he get used to disappointment.  Now I’m going to plant your bony granny butt on top of my very pointy toed boot and we’re going to see how far I can drop kick you, you non-mobile lump of human flesh!!!!!!!!!”  I hate when people block aisles.  I hate long lines.  I hate cold weather, screaming children, grabby-assed shoppers, bell ringers, carols,  forced mediocrity, Bush’s presidency, and granny’s who refuse to get the hell out of my way!! Of course I didn’t say these things to her.  I told her she should go to the mall, and be sure to enter through the north entrance.  There’s a bell ringer there that I thought she would really like.

Did you miss me ?  Yesterday was one of those days like the one in Groundhog’s Day .  I f  you haven’t seen the movie you really should, but the premise is that the star has a day so crappy he is forced to keep reliving it until he changes it for the better.  Cue, “I Got You Babe”…8:15 a.m. (I don’t do this time of day by choice), my daughter is banging on the bedroom door because she can’t find the number of our hairstylist and she needs to move her appointment up because she and her baboo are road trippin’ to California that afternoon.  Groggily I find the number and crawl back to bed.  Noise and chaos ensue as she readies herself for her appointment.  At 10:30 a.m. I get up. That’s right…10:30…people give my husband and I grief all the time about sleeping so late.  I would be rich if I had $5 for every time I’ve heard some early riser whine that it must be nice, or “she doesn’t get up before noon.”  We sleep the same number of hours as everyone else. We just begin and end at different times of the day.  Enough!!…and make coffee and look at my appointments and messages.  Well on Thusday I had to call the Orthopaedist because the cast on my arm was causing me pain and numbness in my hand, so they wanted me to stop in.  I had a hair appointment, as did my husband, a standing lunch date with Mom, the Dr’s appointment, and going by the house to kiss the baby girl goodbye.  Now in my mind it was fluid.  Wham-bam, thank-you, ma’am.  Life likes to surprise you doesn’t it?

What did we do before cellphones?  Seems like I remember a life that was a lot less involved.  You ran errands, you kept appointments, and if someone called your house and didn’t get an answer, they just assumed you were out somewhere, busy, or in the bathtub.  It’s no longer that simple.  You see yesterday my phone was dead, not just a little either, but no bars, no hope for bars, no turning it off for 15 minutes and maybe you can make one quick call…completely dead.  So I left my phone at home on the charger.  While I was at the salon my stylist must have taken 15 calls.  One was to my massage therapist.  I needed to talk to her, so that was a three way call.  Our appointment at the salon was at 1:00.  We got out about 3:00.  We drove to the doctor, who determined that they needed to recast my arm.  We left that office about 4:30.  I came home in 40 degree weather with a wet cast because I knew my daughter would be waiting on me (and she was)… hug, hug, kiss, kiss…out the door and off to lunch with Mother (yes I know) we had to be relatively quick because Mom and my sister were going to a college basketball game, oh, and by the way would we look at her computer? Home at 8:00p.m.

I walked in the door and saw the button on my phone had gone green, which means my phone was fully charged.  The little fellow was beeping too, which let me know I had missed calls.  13 calls!  I checked the home phone then, just out of curiosity and we had 9 messages.  “Where are you?”..if I am able to answer that you won’t need to leave a message. “What’s going on?”…see above response.  “I’m worried!” Okay, finally something legit.  If indeed there had been a problem, you are our contact people.  On all of our HEPA forms info. can be released to anyone….now Mom, before you start…if we are dead there isn’t anything you can do for us anyway, and if we aren’t they are already doing all they can.  Here’s my favorite though, from my daughter-in-law, “Where in the hell are you?  I’ve been calling all day. ”  My daughter had actually spoken to her and she (my d-i-l) had asked my daughter how would I have felt if something had happened and they had needed my help?  Well, here’s the truth.  I still can’t lift more than 15 pounds, my arm is in an even more rigid cast, and the vag. is still broken.  If you need help I’m not your best call right now.  I’d try 911.

I love my cell phone and the convenience it brings me, most of the time.  However; on those rare occasions I don’t have it with me it gets me in a lot of trouble…and that’s not fair.  My sister said that I should always have my phone on me.  I told her, okay but fat lot of good it was gonna do me carrying around a dead phone.  My husband already does, and it’s not working for him. It doesn’t even lower the bill.

It’s hard for me to admit when I’m wrong. Yes, I remember complaining recently about how aggravating that same trait is in my husband…the difference is he is wrong a lot.  I mistakenly berated daytime television.  I lumped it into three categories and dismissed it.  I was, well…you know.  There is a program that comes on at 2:00 p.m. called The Doctors.  OMG!!!! Most of the doctors aren’t worth my time, but there is one Dr. Travis Stork (whom I’ve mentioned before if you were paying attention) and he is fiiiiiiiiine!!!!  Girl he can do my yearly daily, and twice on weekends!!! 

Well one of the topics the other day was what to do when your vajayjay goes gray.  The lady in the audience wanted to know if you could “dye the rug to match the drapes.”  Say what?  Now I am not new here, but I always thought the “rug” was some guys toupee.  Don’t ever dye your cootch to match your guys hair, and if he’s bald anyway wouldn’t it be better just to shave it?  In fact, my vote is for shaving it anyway.  However, that is a decision not to be taken lightly.  Once you commit to it  you kind of have to continue.  The itch is unbearable!  Whatever happened to: “buy an extra batch for a snatch to match?”   I digress… the lady was told that there is a new product on the market, “Betty dye”.  You can have a blonde Betty, a brunette Betty, a black Betty, and a fun Betty (which contains colors like blue and green).  Since when did the name Betty become the name of the southern realm of femininity? Now I’ve called this area so many things the poor dear is probably quite confused.  Mine would probably answer to just about anything, but even I have never actually given the old girl a girl’s name.  Now boobs…they need names.  Especially when you are young and they are right there with you. They fill out your prom dresses, they get your husband’s attention (he’ll lie and say it was your eyes but we know better), they nurse your babies, and in your golden years they keep you from falling off the bed by gently falling side to side to embrace you.  These beings deserve names.  But your Betty?

Now, yummy Dr. Stork played the game and discussed the “Betty”products…the fun Betty comes with stencils just in case color alone doesn’t do it for you….and mentioned that even though these products were named “Betty” men could use them as well.  Okay, this is where the imagination kicks in, Travis Stork, M.D. standing naked in the bathroom applying a heart stencil to “little travis and his play area” and gently shaving around that area.  “Ohhh Dr. did you cut yourself……..fade to black.”

There was a bunch of other stuff on this airing as well…wipe front to back…wear flip flops in public showers…plastic surgeons can get rid of those flabby things under our arms….you know the usual bullshit.  My point being that there is decent daytime television if you look hard enough.  Did I mention that ever since I had this last surgery I’ve had to use this estrogen cream that I suspect is making me hornier than a sailor on leave?  So who knows…watch The Doctors. If after watching, you need a hot man, cold shower, and a cigarette then it’s not just me.  Now if you’ll excuse me I need to set my DVR.

 

 

 

 

It’s hard to type with just one hand, at least for me.  I’ve seen people doing it and doing it beautifully but the problem is I know better.  This is just the beginning of the problems posed by having my right hand in a cast up to my shoulder.  I would love to tell you that it is a pleasure exploring these unexplored  pleasures, but I can’t because they suck.  I didn’t sleep well last night because my right arm outweighs my left by about twenty pounds.  This led to balance issues.  I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that just yet, but I’m thinking of lying with my breasts on my left arm tonight and see if that helps.  They fall to the sides anyway why not make them work for me.

I showered with a trash bag on my right arm.  Oooh! sexy…yeah, bite me.  It’s not like anyone was in there with me, but let me finish painting this picture.  I could shave my legs just fine, but the left armpit was trickier than dating your best friend’s guy (which I did, but she dated mine and we both knew about it so it wasn’t as crazy as it might sound).  Washing your hair can be done with one hand, but conditioning is trickier.  Who knew right?  The lid on my conditioner is tricky and twists open.  I braced it against my cast to twist, but i couldn’t pour it in my right hand (encased as it was in a trash bag) and I had to hold it in my left…so I poured the conditioner on my breast then scooped it up and put it on my hair.  TADA!!!  I am woman hear me roar… forget the fact that I can’t dry my hair alone, line my eyes, or wear the largest part of my wardrobe…I’m still roaring.

This is only day two.  I figure that within a reasonable time frame I will be back to my wicked, wicked, ways with one hand perfectly manicured.  It’s not doing anything else, surely it can grow nails.   Orrr…I can play poor distressed femme and have everyone wait on me hand and foot.  Nah…plan one is better.  If I try to do too much, I’m sure to make a big mess of something.  Then they’ll have to clean it up, because I’m just so useless.  HAHAHA!!!!  The wickedness begins even now.  I could pat myself on the back.  I would clap, but well you know…. 

I have no comment on this day.  My vajayjay is still broken, my right arm is in a cast up to my shoulder, my daughter is unbelieveably sad and I can’t help her.  My grandson is sick, and oh yes…I have an excruciating toothache!  It’s almost the crap that comedies are made of, but it is way too real to be funny.  Things haven’t been going well with my health for awhile now.  One of my medications has caused me to tack on a lot of pounds.  It has helped with my pain, greatly, but I am unhappy with my weight.  My doctor basically told me to get over it (one of those male docs previously mentioned).  I know I should but knowing and doing are 2 different things.  I guess I’ll just deal with the things I have to right now…the arm, vajayjay, and tooth…and give the rest to my higher power.  I hope they handle things better than I have. 

I know I am getting better because I am really beginning to nitpick.  Not that I don’t nitpick already, I do.  I am really not the easiest person with which to live.  I’m not deranged.  I recognize that had other symptoms  not occurred with the mood swings no one would have recognized the beginnings of menopause.  Multiple personalities have always been a part of me.  I like them. They are my friends, but lately we are all getting pissed.  

My husband is the most easy going, lovable guy, anyone has ever met.  Everyone who meets him loves him.  He drives me nuts!! I love him, don’t get me wrong.  He just drives me nuts!  He is one of those people who can’t be wrong.  Just can’t…if you tell him he’s wrong he laughs at you…do you know what that does to someone who has a difficult time with their anger?  He’s lucky to be alive.  He is the only person in existence who can laugh at me when I’m angry and (maybe) I’ll laugh too.  But he has this laugh, when he’s not really laughing, that is kind of patronizing and it just makes me want to find an instrument of torture and make the laughing stop!!  Of course, I would regret it later…of course.

I have never handled anyone patronizing me well.  I don’t like being called the “little woman” or anything else that implies that I am not 100% equal to my spouse.  I am especially intolerant when this comes from the man himself.  Everything about me has been hard fought and even harder won.  I am extremely proud of the fact that I did it on my own. So nothing washes over me quite so much as someone treating as if I am not as intelligent as they are.  Now of course my husband is smart enough never to actually say that he is more intelligent than I am but he has this laugh…and that laugh makes the voices start.

After 10 days in bed, of having to give him the upper hand, the ideas are just flying through my head.  I hate being held down. I hate having to behave. (You just can’t imagine how much!!) I constantly beg for companionship, and then when I get it I start fights.  I think it’s stimulating.  Others think I’m being difficult.  Today’s argument was over Trivial Pursuit.  Did I mention that my husband is extremely intelligent?  Well he is.  He can spout trivia until the cows come home, and in the categories he is deficient I can usually take over.  We are rarely if ever allowed  to play on teams together.  So tonight we were playing against the computer, which means he had control of the computer, he was answering the questions so quickly I didn’t have a chance, and I was sitting beside him semi-reading a magazine. I heard G@#$D@#$%!!!  I looked up.  “I missed that one.”  When I asked him what the question was he told me.  I responded with the correct answer, and I got the LAUGH!!  I felt my chest go red first, then my neck, then my face, ears, and so on.  I told him to just admit he was wrong, and that is when the argument started.  “Well, I wouldn’t have been wrong if my partner would help…blah, blah, blah”…now you know I hate to argue, but this was the most action this bed has seen in awhile so I egged it on.  A lot.  It wasn’t as intense as the chili dog battle of ‘06 but it was fun. It didn’t last long enough.  It ended with him kissing me on the head and going out to bring home dinner. (Don’t you just hate that!) So now, here I am trying to vent on the computer.  I don’t expect to get a lot of sympathy.  Most women think I don’t deserve my husband, that pisses me off too.

People often ask me what I did to deserve a man like my husband (like I’m some terrible, ugly wretch that is lucky to be married at all…I ask myself what he did to deserve me) and I smile and tell them that yes I really got lucky.  And, I believe that with all my heart, nine out of ten times.  That tenth time though….that’s when the smile shows up, and the voices start, and I pretend it’s menopause that makes me want to argue when really all it is is the fact that I am a closet bitch without a closet, and I’m probably gonna be one til I’m  dead too.  It’s his fault for marrying me If he thought I would change, he was wrong! 

If you’ve been keeping up you know this is day 9 of my forced luxury.  It’s great. I would personally like to get in touch with all the clowns responsible for the programming on daytime television.  They basically have broken their daytime viewership down into three categories: mommies, babies, and the retired. I am none of the above.  Okay yes, technically I’m a mommy, but I am soooo past the nursing, changing diapers, wiping runnny noses mommy and that’s the mommy they are after so you really can’t even put me there.  Now, I say this with love, because believe me I know mommies, and babies, and retired people, and they are all quite happy with their television options.  My mother’s life would be over if she should be out past 6:30 at night and would miss The Wheel of Fortune, (which for her is just affectionately known as “the wheel”).  But lately, I have had way too many opportunities to enjoy daytime t.v. 

I love Rachel Ray.  She’s just so damn cute she makes me barf in  my mouth a little.  I record her show every morning.  Normally I watch it late night when nothing is on.  Not lately.  I have been watching it in the morning because nothing comes on a lot earlier than I thought.  There is a plethora of reality television.  You can watch babies being delivered, or life in the ER of several hospitals, or how lucky you are not to have 17+ children (luck my ass…it’s called birth control - use it!) or how to resolve legal issues with umpteen Judges.  My mom, falling into the category of retired, loves to repeat Judge Judyism’s…that never gets old.  She especially loves the one when Judge Judy told “some old girl” she was “dumber than a bag of hammers.”  Now I don’t have a law degree ( I sometimes wonder about the Judge’s on television as well) but I’ve always imagined that a courtroom would be a place with a certain amount of decorum.  I have never thought a judge would insult my intelligence in such a manner.  Until I watched an episode with my mother.  OMG!  I think you must have to pass an IQ test to be on the show, but the requirement is if you score above a 90 you’re a no-go.  Which brings me to the next section of the brain trust, those very special people who show up on the Maury Povich show, or as I like to call them who’s your baby daddy, and other shows like them.  If you have ever been so drunk that you passed out and had sex with multiple lovers and have no way of knowing who fathered your child, don’t go on national television 16 times for DNA tests to try and find out.  People will talk.  That may not bother you, but someday your child is going to grow up and that shit will be hard to get over.  ATTENTION, to all you sperm donors out there, if you get invited to be on some talk show like that because someone has a “secret” they want to reveal…don’t go.  In fact, even if you aren’t a suspected sperm donor , but maybe just some good old guy …run…do your level best never to see that person again.  No good is ever going to come out of that situation.  It may not be a baby daddy thing, but it’s bad.  No one has ever seen one of those that came out good.  If a svelte super-model has a crush on you she probably will just tell you herself.  Run, my friend, just run!!!

I suppose if you are into soap operas they are okay.  My problems with them are relatively simple.  Everyone lives in glorious houses (except for that one really nasty character that everyone hates).  No one ever wears jeans, in fact they primarily wear designer evening wear.  Their make-up is always perfect, even first thing in the morning.  No one has anything but perfect to die for jobs, and everyone is sleeping with everyone else’s spouse.  So basically if you are watching this crap with your kids what you are telling them is that ridiculous ideals of perfection are absolutely okay and all homeless or nasty people are hateful.  Well that’s fun.  Perhaps we should show soap operas in private schools.  Then all of the little princes and princesses would believe all the junk they are being forced to swallow, and they would never have to feel guily for not putting change in the cup of a street person.

Kiddie television is great for what it is for.  My grandson loves the Mickey Mouse Club.  I love that he loves it.  What I don’t love is the way that the songs stick in my head for hours after the program is over.  I know they are simple and repetative for a reason.  It works well too, as I know almost all of them by heart.  There are others, Blues Clues, Handy Manny, one with funky looking monsters that have arms that flop around in random movement as they sing songs that are as disjointed as their limbs.  The saddest part of that show is the young man that plays the puppet master to the monsters.  In my pretend mind, he has at the very least, a bachelor’s degree in early childhood development, but when he applied for a job as a teacher no one would hire him because they were thinking “pedophile”.  So after months of horrible interviews and reaching the point where he was just about to give up, he went to an employment placement agenct and they said they could place him in the entertainment industry and he was thinking “Mr. Wizard” and what he got was “Puppet Master to the Freaks.”  Don’t you know his mother just cringes when she runs into Lulu whose son the Doctor has developed some new lifesaving procedure and Lulu asks her how Franklin is doing.  “Well, he plays with puppets everyday from 2:00 - 2:30.” (crickets chirping) I’ve tried people, and this is the only way I can make children’s television fun.

Retired people want to watch the news and weather, and if they can get them both on the same channel, well God Bless.  When my Dad was alive, he could tell you the weather forecast in any area of the world.  He knew when a storm was brewing and at what time it was supposed to hit land. He knew wind speeds and barometric pressures and, thanks to modern technology, allergen levels in specific areas of the nation.  He was a meteorlogic demi-god.  He had a weather screen on his television that showed a 6 way split of weather stations.  This allowed him to keep up with local weather, tri-state weather, national weather, continental weather, European weather, and weather worldwide…and he did.  Unless there was a college ball game on.  Then we were on our own for an hour and a half or however long the game took.  Then the watchdog was back and we were all safe from the storm again.

I’ve slept alot.  Not because I’ve been particularly tired.  I think because I’ve been bored.  I don’t really like reality television (and yes I know there is more to it than what I mentioned.  I’m all about some Top Chef, Dancing with the Stars, or God help me, Project Runway, but those are night time reality television shows and I pacify myself with that knowledge) and since I can’t lift my grandson I really haven’t been tuning in to the kiddo channels lately.  I hope Franklin is surviving. I suppose I could take up weather watching and try to fill the shoes my dad left so very empty, but there is just no way in hell those shoes will ever be filled so why even try.  I wake up every day surprised by the weather…but it still happens just like it always has.  Whether we watch it or not.  So I choose not to.  It’s still to painful.  I sleep during the day and read some, play a little on the computer, and wait for the night.  That’s when television brings out the programming that will make you think.  The CSI’s, SVU’s, Criminal Minds, Lost, and other things that are really just as mind numbing as anything that is shown during the day.  Sometime life is just what you believe it is.  So if you are over educated, over read, and bored within an inch of your very life you start to pick at things.  I chose daytime television, and my IQ.  It’s fragile.  Don’t pick at it.  

 

I only learned about the existence of poo particles today. I’m not particularly worried about their existence, but I feel it is my duty to tell the world so that if you have poo particle phobia you will be warned. 

 My daughter brought these filthy beasts to my attention.  Now I know a lot of parents don’t listen when their children speak, but my daughter is one of those special children who just demands your attention (plus she’s 23).  Overtime you will come to know my girl, but let’s just say she is a force to be reckoned with.  When she was delivered and they placed her naked little body on my chest, she looked up and said ” who’s in charge here.  It’s cold, I’m naked and you nicked me with that hang nail.” We thought she was precious.  Well 23 years have passed and a lot of adjectives have been used to describe my darling daughter but to me she is still precious.  Yes, she is a precious pain in the ass, however; she never fails to teach me things.  I have learned things from my sons (I will save that for a whole other post) but daughter knowledge is entirely different.  Your daughter will teach you fashion…through humiliation.  She will tell you how old you are, up until the time that you are old.  But just when you think you’ve heard it all…along come poo particles.

We were talking about magazine articles…well specifically we were talking about Travis Stork, M.D. and how ridiculously gorgeous he is when I asked her if she had seen this week’s Time magazine.  OMG!! A Look came across her face that was filled with righteous indignation!  Her purple, veined, face was framed by snakes when she turned it on me and I heard thunder fill the air as she said “Did he have it in the bathroom?” “He” is my husband. “He”, like every man in existence, reads in the bathroom. We don’t talk about it.  If “he” finds out I blogged about it “he” may kill me. but anyway….back to my story…I answered that I really didn’t know.  She whipped that glorious blond head around to me and growled, “Oh you know”.  I offered to go get the magazine for her, and this is when I learned about poo particles.

Apparently, she has read, heard, watched, sensed…(I honestly don’t know she came by this knowledge) that if you go “big potty” you give off poo particles in the air and these particles can travel up to three feet.  Therefore, anything that has been in your bathroom while anyone has gone “big potty” is highly contaminated.  While the magazine was no longer in the bathroom it was still covered in poo particles.  I asked (because I had to) what about the person on the potty.  Well, it seems the person should (in theory) shower immediately after going “big potty” but if that is not possible you just have to live with a certain amount of poo fallout, but that’s because we are basically filthy creatures.  It’s not like we go around touching our clothes alot, and it’s alot easier to wash our clothes than our magazines.  This little lamb of mine was going to go spend her hard earned dollars on a new magazine rather than risk poo particle exposure.

Now I have to admit that I am not nearly as terrified as my darling.  Maybe because I’ve been a Mom and I’ve dealt with a a lot of poo.  Or maybe because I’m old and life has been flinging poo at me for as long as I can remember, but I really don’t have a huge fear.  I don’t wait to lie in a vat of poo and wallow around, but a few poo particles don’t particularly frighten me.  I’ve got my Clorox surface cleaner and I’m not afraid to use it.  But knowing that she’s afraid pleases me.  I don’t know why.  It’s one of those little happinesses that I can’t explain.  Oh, don’t you judge me!  You’ve got something that makes you happy that you’d rather people didn’t know about.  You probably think midgets are funny or watch those videos that only show people getting hit in the crotch and just roll around in the floor howling in laughter…so don’t you judge me!  I think my happiness stems from the fact that I’ve instilled a love for cleanliness in at least one child. Plus, as long as she’s that afraid of poo she won’t have kids. (Maybe) But it does make you think doesn’t it.  I think she should go into business warning people about the poo particles.  She could get a pimped out ride (or some old ambulance or hearse) and fill it with all sorts or anti-bacterials and then she could get some employees to help her and they could go around sanitizing the world.  They could call themselves….wait for it…..The Poo Fighters!!!  (If I have to explain it you really are old)

 

 

So anyway I’ve done my job…haha…I meant about telling you about poo particles.  So keep everything precious to you at least 3 feet from the potty, and if you are still afraid wrap your magazine in that plastic crap that the put magazines in at the doctor’s office but use it on all the pages…or the poo particles will get you if you don’t watch out!

My husband has left me.  I don’t blame him, in fact I expected it.  A week ago when the doctor told us that I needed to do nothing (emphasis on nothing) for two weeks, my husband got this deer in the headlights look on his face.  He lasted a week.  That’s five days longer than I thought.  He tried to get out on Monday, day 4.  He came to my bedside and asked very sweetly if I wanted to try going downstairs.  I gave him a look that could stop a glacier.  Mind you, I’m a lamb.  You will not find a woman more tolerant than me anywhere on this planet, but I can’t go to the bathroom and he thought I was going to go downstairs!  You know men and the look they get on their faces when they know they’ve said something that they intended to be really sweet, but it came out really stupid.  It’s kind of the same look a kid gets when they get caught with their hand in the cookie jar and there is no easy way out.  Well, he got that look.  Now, if you know me you know I had to hassle him a little and he absolutely could not wait to get back downstairs to his man cave and the quiet solitude therein.

Today is Wednesday…he has been here everyday just as patient as he can be.  He even made me a peach pie. (When I say made, I mean took out of a box and put in the oven, but hey he set the timer and made sure it didn’t burn!)  So I really can’t blame him for leaving me.  Hell, I wish I could leave me.  I would be out the door faster than you could say “jelly doughnut” and no one would see my fat ass again until Thanksgiving.  But I’m still here.  Looks like I’ll be here all week.  TaDa!!  My one magic trick.

If you ever decide to do a gynecological remodel you need to be aware of just a few things.  First- If you live in a two story home, try to have a room available in the lower level with a bed in it so you can feel like part of the family. Second- Get a lot of excellent reading material together before the procedure.  Don’t trust someone else to do it.  Believe me, the concept of excellent is much broader than you would think. Third - don’t lull yourself into thinking that a couple of weeks in bed will be great!! You’ll get so much rest!!  It’s bull.  What you get is a numb butt and really impatient.  Fourth - People are too busy to come see you during the day, and if they say they’ll come by at night they are probably lying…and finally Fifth - people will get tired of your whiney ass.  When they ask how you are feeling they want to hear “fine”.  They don’t want the truth.  If they have to hear the truth, or a description of what the truth looks like, they will leave.  Just like my husband did.  Don’t think harshly of him.  He’ll be back.  He just went to a business meeting.  Here is the harsh part, when I called my mother to see if she could come over (because I’m not supposed to be alone…probably because they think I’ll committ suicide ) she ditched me too!  I can understand why my husband would want to split like a tight pair of pants, but my mother?  I may have to reconsider what a pleasant person I’ve been.  Nah…I’m good.

I didn’t think I would mind aging.  I was happy not having a period…gleefull even.  The children grew up without prison records, and I could spend time alone if I chose.  These were things I had been looking forward to for quite a long time.  However, there are things — things no one tells you — things more closely guarded than our national borders… significantly.  No one ever told me that with menopause came chin whiskers.  Yup, you need a special friend you know will tweeze your chin if you find yourself in a coma because you do not want to wake up and find you have become a bearded lady.  Don’t count on your kids, they will probably think this is funny.  Also, no one tells you about memory loss or the ridiculously dry skin or the memory loss. 

But the major, major, problem is the organ failure.  You heard me.  All of the organs that have been serving you all the days of your life have decided to play by different rules.  Sometimes you are freezing.  It doesn’t matter what the temperature says or what the thermostat says or, God help him, what your husband says.  You’re freezing.  You must have warmth.  Two minutes later you will be sweating bullets and throwing clothes, and it doesn’t matter how comfortable any other creature around you is – you are the only one of importance.  To this you must add the fact that your uterus has become foreign.  From the time I was twelve, I knew that every twenty-eight days I would have a period.  If I had not had a period by day twenty-nine, I was pregnant.  I thought menopause meant a pause would occur that would have nothing to do with pregnancy.  I was dumb enough to think that menopause was a pause in the menses.  Oh hell no!!  No one told me that in a whole lot of women before they stop having periods… they have really crazy periods.  ALOT!!  I was so anemic I felt like a snack pack for a vampire! Migraines increased during this time frame.  Okay — follow me — I am bleeding like a hemophiliac on heparin with a headache that would make Mother Theresa cuss like a sailor, then (let’s frost this cake) my emotions are all over the map.  Room full of gas… you just know someone is going to light a match… child: “why are you being such a bitch today?”  Me: sweeping up body of dead child. 

In the seventies everyone told us that having babies naturally was the thing to do.  So I did.  No meds.  No nothing.  All natural.   Screw that, I want mine now.  I didn’t take drugs then, the way I figure it they owe me.   One week ago I had to have surgery because my organs were all screwed up because I carried three kids and blah, blah, blah, and now I am laid up in bed with those three going and doing there own thing and leaving me lying here like a lump of Spam.  I’m hurt.  I want my drugs.  Now mind you, I have a wonderful husband.  He wants me to have my drugs too.  I went to my family Dr. and told him I wanted drugs.  He gave me lots.  He gave me anti-depressants, acid reflux meds, meds for migraines, meds for migraine prevention,  meds to help me sleep, meds for my cholesterol level,  but nothing just because I’m pissed off.  He sent me to a rheumatologist.  The rheumatologist gave me meds.  He gave me shots in my knees, and shots in my shoulders, and shots in my ankles, and anti-inflammatory meds, and “moderate” pain killers and he sent me to a orthopedist.  He did MRIs and put me in splints and physical therapy and electrical units and blah, blah, blah, and I was still pissed and I still hadn’t gotten my drugs!!!

I went to my OB-GYN.  I love my OB-GYN (except when she tells me how much I remind her of her mother) and I told her how pissed I’ve been.  I told her how ripped off I have been feeling about having been denied my drugs during childbirth and not getting them now.  More importantly I told her about all the crap I’ve been going through with this menopause thing and how gross and disgusting all this bleeding had made me feel, and how things were hanging out in places that shouldn’t, and how moods weren’t jolly and people weren’t reasonable and how I would laugh but if I did (too hard) I just might pee my pants. And…my OB-GYN (Bless her heart) said “let’s take it all out” and she did. 

Now I know people are going to scream that this isn’t necessary.  SCREW YOU!!!  It worked for me. Immediately after that my hot flashes stopped. My mood improved. Obviously the bleeding ended, and I no longer felt gross.  Until just recently when I noticed something emerging from somewhere that nothing had emerged from since 1985. So I went back to see my OB-GYN she immediately knew what the problem was and scheduled more surgery with more blessed drugs. Now when things flare up I bypass all the male doctors and go straight to my female doctor. When I recover from my little remodel there is no telling what I may take on, but right now I am going to milk this for all it is worth.

I know that aging doesn’t have to be hard.  I know that it depends on your outlook, but a lot of your outlook might depend on who you have on your side to talk to.  If you don’t get the answers you want…keep asking.  Don’t wait till someone call’s you a bitch to do something about it.  I mean it.  It’s really hard to get dead kid out of the carpet!  Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my pill.