Finding Balance

If anyone can figure out the whole hormone replacement therapy thing, clue me in, would you? It has something to do with finding the right balance between estrogen and testosterone.

Which is all fine, except it’s so darned experimental. Apparently, if we take too much estrogen, we’ll grow a third foot or, possibly, a polyp or two. I hate the word polyp. It just sounds so… polyp-y.

On the other hand, if we take too much testosterone, we end up with too much free testosterone, which, I’m assuming, is much worse than, I dunno, incarcerated testosterone. Maybe jails are exploding with the stuff, and, in the current economic climate, the last thing we want to do is spend our tax dollars on rounding up testosterone to throw behind bars. Our tax dollars are much better spent on bankers and corporate officers who don’t have the sense not to order a $40 million private jet with public money.

Which I think says something meaningful about testosterone, but I haven’t figured out what that is.

Back to HRT. I’ve learned enough to know that testosterone levels need to stay up in order to support a good libido. Now, there’s a word for you. Much, much better than polyp. Libido sounds fun. Think hullabaloo and whoopee and oh, baby, oh, baby, oh. See what I mean?

But give yourself too much of a good thing and you end up growing, not another foot, or even a polyp, but something much uglier: A two-inch black hair that sprouts on your cheek just in front of your right ear.

Oh, c’mon. Quit ewww-ing. If you’re female and over 45, you’ve had one of those. It’s the one that you miss, even with a superb magnifying mirror, bright make-up lights, and a pair of tweezers that could pick up Jell-O. But you don’t miss it forever. No, when you’re out with the man of your dreams, and a breeze blows, you discover it because it tickles your cheek. Then, no matter how hard and unobtrusively you try to wrap it around your index finger and yank—-and unobtrusively is hard under these circumstances—-it Won’t. Come. Out.

Of course, this leaves your cheek red, illuminating your one big character defect. You know, that one that indicates you haven’t found the right balance.

What goes around...

We’re selling a house and buying a house and along with all that comes chimney inspections. Ours is in need of repair. It shouldn’t be, because the previous homeowner said he’d fixed what was wrong when I bought the house four years ago. He hadn’t.

This fixing of chimneys is a tricky business because it’s not only very expensive, you can’t really see what you’re getting. It’s a matter of trust and faith. I have a lot of faith. But I also tend to put my trust into hands that I shouldn’t.

Mea culpa.

And shame on him.

During the time I’ve lived here, I’ve continued to get mail for the former owner. Some of it has looked really official and serious, but, having no forwarding address, I sent it back to the post office.

The other day, the same day I found out about the chimney, the postman handed me a document that required a signature. I started to sign, then realized it was meant for the former owner. I was happy to hand it back. This particular missive looked really, really official and really, really serious, and I was glad I was dealing with chimney repairs and not the IRS agent who’d sent it.

I’ve heard the IRS can be very, very expensive, much more than the repairs on a chimney. My trust may have been misplaced, but my faith remains intact.

Cat Behaving Badly

I love my cat, I really do. Recently, she learned that what the dog can do, she can, too. Namely, use the double-doored hole in the garage wall to get out of the house. We don’t necessarily want her to be outside the house, but in the interests of keeping the dog happy, who was, after all, here first (as she likes to remind us), we can’t close that door.

So my cat, whom I love, I really do, has now turned from plump fireside kitty into sleek and mighty feline warrior. She spends her nights, or at least parts thereof, terrorizing small animals.

How do I know this?

Because she likes to bring them, or parts of them, inside. Like the dead chipmunk I stumbled over in the kitchen doorway. Or, my personal favorite, the bird’s head deposited next to my closet. I have a feeling the rest of said bird could be somewhere inside, but because it’s touch-and-go whether anyone who enters my closet, even on a good day and without the possibility of a dead bird, or parts of it, buried under the pile of shoes in the corner, will ever emerge again, I haven’t gone in to look.

I love my cat, I really do.

She illustrates something I need to remember. That everyone sometimes behaves badly. No, wait; I’ve phrased that wrong. I mean, sometimes people behave in a way I don’t like. Sometimes, they just behave according to their nature. Sometimes, they do something that has consequences they didn’t expect or intend. Usually, it’s nothing personal, nothing intended to harm me or hurt my feelings or ruin my day or even make me walk into my closet.

And how do I know that? Because I do it, too.