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.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Just a slight pause...
... in case you haven't noticed, and you probably haven't, I stopped blogging over a year ago. Almost two years ago. You see, I write about my everyday life. And my everyday life suddenly got romantic back in July of 08. It culminated this past September in getting married. While I love sharing my thoughts with you, this was a pretty personal deal, and since my thoughts didn't seem to wander too far from this pretty personal deal, I stopped blogging.
Clear as mud? Thought so.
If you're still checking every once in a while, keep doing so, as I plan to get rolling on this blog-thing again.
Clear as mud? Thought so.
If you're still checking every once in a while, keep doing so, as I plan to get rolling on this blog-thing again.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Acting Your Age
I was in Texas earlier in the month – always an experience, Texas. I’ve decided I love driving there. When I drove there the first time, it terrified me, because every time I looked in my rearview mirror, there was a pickup grill looking back. They don’t drive anything except pickups in Texas. But now I like the way they drive, because they’ve made things so simple. If you want to pass, you get up on someone’s bumper, they move over, and everyone’s happy. I mean, I have a Honda CRV, which can’t terrorize anyone. But when I get up on someone’s bumper, they still pull over. It makes me feel powerful. If I did that in my city, they wouldn’t pull over, they’d pull out an AK-47. Which would make me feel dead.
But that isn’t really what I wanted to talk about. When I was in Texas, my niece said that she didn’t like seeing people acting younger than they actually are. Wait, not people. She said, women. Probably because men never grow up, so she’s not carrying the same expectations for them. (Oh, c’mon, don’t send mail... you know none of us do.) Okay, I can agree with her to a point because I’ve never thought micro-mini’s and pigtails go well with laugh lines and jowls, but...
Well, I decided a while back – I think it was about the time I turned 50 - that age was irrelevant. Yes, thinking about it, it was exactly at the time I turned 50, because that decision kept me from driving off a bridge.
I went to to see Chicago and the Doobie Brothers this past June. To clarify, these are singing groups. Don’t ask, as my niece did, “Did you see the Natural History Museum while you were there?” Sweetheart. Dearest. That’s not cute.
It was an outdoor concert. I went with a similarly-aged friend, and we hooted and clapped and danced in the aisles – and we were glad there was nobody there of a respectable age. You know, like my niece. I only once decided we should act more dignified – that was when the overhead clapping started. You know what I’m talking about. It’s when somebody in the band drops his guitar so it hangs by the strap around his neck, then claps his hands over his head, like he’s signaling emergency rescue. And then the audience joins in. Well, it struck me that most of the women there had flaps that could slow a cargo plane. It wasn’t pretty.
But, otherwise, I thought we all looked pretty cool. Even after storm clouds thundered in and tornado sirens sounded in the next county which prompted a lot of cell phone activity, but nobody left, even after lightning flashed, and the skies opened up. Instead, being cool, we all crowded under covered walkways. The concert was suspended for twenty minutes, and then I guess the organizers thought, what the hell, or else they thought, lawsuits for an electrocution or two might be cheaper than refunding everyone’s $72.50 ticket.
Once the music started again, I can assure my niece that the walkways looked like any other mosh pit at any other rock concert. Except, maybe, for the umbrellas. You know, when you get to an irrelevant age, you have these knee-jerk needs to be practical when you’re standing outside in severe storm warnings during a rock concert.
About a half hour before the concert ended, the rain subsided enough that we could go back to our seats, although we couldn’t sit in them because they were too wet. Oh, that’s not another example of practicality; that’s just ego. When you walk around with a wet tush when you’re of an irrelevant age, people don’t immediately jump to the idea you were at a rock concert in the rain. They just think you forgot your Depends.
Another cool thing happened. A cute-looking guy ducked under my umbrella while we were clapping – or rather, he was clapping because I haven’t figured out how to hold an umbrella and clap at the same time. It’s not something I mastered in my youth. Actually, I don’t think I ever held an umbrella in my youth. But nothing came of anything, even though he was cute; I think because I looked really stupid trying.
Concert over, but storm still underway, my friend and I headed to the car. Outside the concert bowl, and between the tall, very tall, trees that line the path to the parking lot, we could see bolts of lightning splitting the nighttime sky.
I guess she was feeling kind of foolish – I’m not sure; I couldn’t study her expression because I was busy trying to look nonchalant. She turned to me and said, “And how old are we?”
I pondered, then lifted my chin. “Old enough that nobody can tell us not to do this.”
Which is a really great age to be when you think about it. Not that I plan to be a lightning rod again in the near future, but I like being this old, and I like not caring what anyone thinks. Not even my niece (whom, if she is reading this: I love you very much, sweetheart, and I forgive you). I can still dance at rock concerts. I can still ride somebody’s ass all the way to Corpus Christi. And nobody can tell me not to.
But that isn’t really what I wanted to talk about. When I was in Texas, my niece said that she didn’t like seeing people acting younger than they actually are. Wait, not people. She said, women. Probably because men never grow up, so she’s not carrying the same expectations for them. (Oh, c’mon, don’t send mail... you know none of us do.) Okay, I can agree with her to a point because I’ve never thought micro-mini’s and pigtails go well with laugh lines and jowls, but...
Well, I decided a while back – I think it was about the time I turned 50 - that age was irrelevant. Yes, thinking about it, it was exactly at the time I turned 50, because that decision kept me from driving off a bridge.
I went to to see Chicago and the Doobie Brothers this past June. To clarify, these are singing groups. Don’t ask, as my niece did, “Did you see the Natural History Museum while you were there?” Sweetheart. Dearest. That’s not cute.
It was an outdoor concert. I went with a similarly-aged friend, and we hooted and clapped and danced in the aisles – and we were glad there was nobody there of a respectable age. You know, like my niece. I only once decided we should act more dignified – that was when the overhead clapping started. You know what I’m talking about. It’s when somebody in the band drops his guitar so it hangs by the strap around his neck, then claps his hands over his head, like he’s signaling emergency rescue. And then the audience joins in. Well, it struck me that most of the women there had flaps that could slow a cargo plane. It wasn’t pretty.
But, otherwise, I thought we all looked pretty cool. Even after storm clouds thundered in and tornado sirens sounded in the next county which prompted a lot of cell phone activity, but nobody left, even after lightning flashed, and the skies opened up. Instead, being cool, we all crowded under covered walkways. The concert was suspended for twenty minutes, and then I guess the organizers thought, what the hell, or else they thought, lawsuits for an electrocution or two might be cheaper than refunding everyone’s $72.50 ticket.
Once the music started again, I can assure my niece that the walkways looked like any other mosh pit at any other rock concert. Except, maybe, for the umbrellas. You know, when you get to an irrelevant age, you have these knee-jerk needs to be practical when you’re standing outside in severe storm warnings during a rock concert.
About a half hour before the concert ended, the rain subsided enough that we could go back to our seats, although we couldn’t sit in them because they were too wet. Oh, that’s not another example of practicality; that’s just ego. When you walk around with a wet tush when you’re of an irrelevant age, people don’t immediately jump to the idea you were at a rock concert in the rain. They just think you forgot your Depends.
Another cool thing happened. A cute-looking guy ducked under my umbrella while we were clapping – or rather, he was clapping because I haven’t figured out how to hold an umbrella and clap at the same time. It’s not something I mastered in my youth. Actually, I don’t think I ever held an umbrella in my youth. But nothing came of anything, even though he was cute; I think because I looked really stupid trying.
Concert over, but storm still underway, my friend and I headed to the car. Outside the concert bowl, and between the tall, very tall, trees that line the path to the parking lot, we could see bolts of lightning splitting the nighttime sky.
I guess she was feeling kind of foolish – I’m not sure; I couldn’t study her expression because I was busy trying to look nonchalant. She turned to me and said, “And how old are we?”
I pondered, then lifted my chin. “Old enough that nobody can tell us not to do this.”
Which is a really great age to be when you think about it. Not that I plan to be a lightning rod again in the near future, but I like being this old, and I like not caring what anyone thinks. Not even my niece (whom, if she is reading this: I love you very much, sweetheart, and I forgive you). I can still dance at rock concerts. I can still ride somebody’s ass all the way to Corpus Christi. And nobody can tell me not to.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Life's Little Meanings
I’m always trying to read things into things, find meanings, connect dots, draw parallels. It’s an exhausting business, this being a deep thinker stuff, but I persist, because one day I’m pretty certain I’ll uncover the secrets of the universe.
I live in a nice, middle-class suburban neighborhood. Late this (Sunday) afternoon, I decided to walk to the hardware store, about three-quarters of a mile away, to buy a light bulb. Okay, so I was a little bit bored – cleaning my house was looking like the only other alternative to light-bulb-buying if I wanted to get away from all this thinking.
Anyway, I reached an intersection, just before cutting through this pocket park behind the library, and a little old guy in a little old Honda waved me across. I crossed.
Then he turned the corner, pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”
I eyed him. 80, 85. Perfectly harmless. I’m the type that’s likely to snort at a flasher, and he hardly looked strong enough to suck air into his lungs, let alone me into the car. So, I walked over, thinking maybe he needed directions. “Yes?”
The moment I reached the window, he launched in. “My son—-out in California—-he weighed 350 pounds, but then he got this book by this doctor that was about how it’s really animal protein that causes all the problems, you see, with metabolism, you see, throwing off clots and all. And he followed that diet, and whammo--he dropped a hundred pounds in a year.”
“He did?” I said, wondering where this was going.
“Yes, and I tried it, and I used to weigh 180, but now I’m down to 145.” He patted his skinny stomach and looked meaningfully at my not-so-skinny stomach. “I just had to tell you.”
I waited a beat to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. I immediately decided I would never, ever, never wear this particular pair of shorts again. Or this shirt.
I glanced down, just noticing the box of wine on the passenger seat. Ah. But I still wouldn’t wear these shorts or this shirt. “What was the name of the book?” I asked.
“Heart Attacks Start in the Liver.”
“And so does cirrhosis,” I muttered to myself, watching him drive off.
I pulled out my cell phone. He reached the top of the street, made a U-turn.
“My God.” I relayed the incident to my friend. “You’re supposed to be my friend. If I look this bad, you’re supposed to tell me before people take pity and start hailing me on the street.”
The little old man pulled even with me. The window came down, and he called out. “Hemp.”
“What?”
“HEMP! Best additive you can get.” He rolled off.
I stared after him. For long, long moments.
I promise you I’m not lying about this.
As I returned from the hardware store, carrying a little bag with my light bulb tucked inside, I crossed the pocket park parking lot. The little old man was long gone. But a little old lady was getting out of her little old Buick.
She directed a hostile stare at me. “You got a dog?”
I do, but my dog was at home. “No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then, you wanna tell me why you’re carryin’ a poop bag?”
“I—it’s a light bulb,” I stammered, walking on.
She stared after me.
I’m honestly not making this up.
As I continued home, I started my usual pondering. I wondered what the connection was between my two encounters, wondered if I was meant to buy a book about livers and heart disease and how that related to dog manure (yes, I know, but I was seeking something deeper than that), and searched for a possible reason everyone had forgotten to take their meds that morning.
I finally concluded there was no deep meaning beyond the obvious indication that I should stay on the diet I started seven days ago, and, really, that doesn’t take a whole lot of thought. Sometimes things just... are. And maybe that’s one of the big secrets of the universe.
I live in a nice, middle-class suburban neighborhood. Late this (Sunday) afternoon, I decided to walk to the hardware store, about three-quarters of a mile away, to buy a light bulb. Okay, so I was a little bit bored – cleaning my house was looking like the only other alternative to light-bulb-buying if I wanted to get away from all this thinking.
Anyway, I reached an intersection, just before cutting through this pocket park behind the library, and a little old guy in a little old Honda waved me across. I crossed.
Then he turned the corner, pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”
I eyed him. 80, 85. Perfectly harmless. I’m the type that’s likely to snort at a flasher, and he hardly looked strong enough to suck air into his lungs, let alone me into the car. So, I walked over, thinking maybe he needed directions. “Yes?”
The moment I reached the window, he launched in. “My son—-out in California—-he weighed 350 pounds, but then he got this book by this doctor that was about how it’s really animal protein that causes all the problems, you see, with metabolism, you see, throwing off clots and all. And he followed that diet, and whammo--he dropped a hundred pounds in a year.”
“He did?” I said, wondering where this was going.
“Yes, and I tried it, and I used to weigh 180, but now I’m down to 145.” He patted his skinny stomach and looked meaningfully at my not-so-skinny stomach. “I just had to tell you.”
I waited a beat to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. I immediately decided I would never, ever, never wear this particular pair of shorts again. Or this shirt.
I glanced down, just noticing the box of wine on the passenger seat. Ah. But I still wouldn’t wear these shorts or this shirt. “What was the name of the book?” I asked.
“Heart Attacks Start in the Liver.”
“And so does cirrhosis,” I muttered to myself, watching him drive off.
I pulled out my cell phone. He reached the top of the street, made a U-turn.
“My God.” I relayed the incident to my friend. “You’re supposed to be my friend. If I look this bad, you’re supposed to tell me before people take pity and start hailing me on the street.”
The little old man pulled even with me. The window came down, and he called out. “Hemp.”
“What?”
“HEMP! Best additive you can get.” He rolled off.
I stared after him. For long, long moments.
I promise you I’m not lying about this.
As I returned from the hardware store, carrying a little bag with my light bulb tucked inside, I crossed the pocket park parking lot. The little old man was long gone. But a little old lady was getting out of her little old Buick.
She directed a hostile stare at me. “You got a dog?”
I do, but my dog was at home. “No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then, you wanna tell me why you’re carryin’ a poop bag?”
“I—it’s a light bulb,” I stammered, walking on.
She stared after me.
I’m honestly not making this up.
As I continued home, I started my usual pondering. I wondered what the connection was between my two encounters, wondered if I was meant to buy a book about livers and heart disease and how that related to dog manure (yes, I know, but I was seeking something deeper than that), and searched for a possible reason everyone had forgotten to take their meds that morning.
I finally concluded there was no deep meaning beyond the obvious indication that I should stay on the diet I started seven days ago, and, really, that doesn’t take a whole lot of thought. Sometimes things just... are. And maybe that’s one of the big secrets of the universe.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sitting Like a Lump
I signed up for e-Harmony. And, wow, I’m finding it as much fun as... well, job hunting or trying to market one of my manuscripts or maybe selling Amway. Not that I’ve sold Amway, but I’m just saying.
On e-Harmony, you create a profile, they send you other peoples’ profiles, you pick and choose and wink and wave hi, and sometimes you get really brave and send a few questions for the other person to answer... And then once that flurry of activity passes... we all sit there like lumps staring at each other. It reminds me of junior high dances and why I’ve never been huge on wallowing around in nostalgia.
But it occurs to me that this is very similar reaction to how I face most decisions. I sit there like a lump. Because to choose one thing, means to not choose the others. What if I would have been happier with something else? (And can someone tell me why I think I could ever possibly know that?) And, omigod, what if I choose... and then something better comes along? (And how could I ever possibly know that, either?)
A wise friend of mine recently said, with a fond sigh... maybe, actually, an exasperated sigh, but, I try to choose a glass-half-full perspective...
Anyway, she said, “Jerri, make a decision. If it doesn’t turn out all right...
“Then make another decision.” (She didn’t add “for God’s sake” but I think she wanted to.)
And, okay, it was probably an exasperated sigh.
A few entries ago, I wrote about how your best hope is as likely to occur as your worst fear. Similarly, it’s just as likely you’ll enjoy the consequences of a choice, instead of suffer them. (Once again, I’m cribbing from a daily reading.) And if there’s no decision made at all... well, then we all sit there like lumps. Growing lumpier.
So, I’m off to “wink” and “wave hi” and “nudge” “my matches” into doing the same. (Are we having fun yet, or what?) Then I’m checking into Amway because this job-hunt and market-a-manuscript thing isn’t going that well, either.
On e-Harmony, you create a profile, they send you other peoples’ profiles, you pick and choose and wink and wave hi, and sometimes you get really brave and send a few questions for the other person to answer... And then once that flurry of activity passes... we all sit there like lumps staring at each other. It reminds me of junior high dances and why I’ve never been huge on wallowing around in nostalgia.
But it occurs to me that this is very similar reaction to how I face most decisions. I sit there like a lump. Because to choose one thing, means to not choose the others. What if I would have been happier with something else? (And can someone tell me why I think I could ever possibly know that?) And, omigod, what if I choose... and then something better comes along? (And how could I ever possibly know that, either?)
A wise friend of mine recently said, with a fond sigh... maybe, actually, an exasperated sigh, but, I try to choose a glass-half-full perspective...
Anyway, she said, “Jerri, make a decision. If it doesn’t turn out all right...
“Then make another decision.” (She didn’t add “for God’s sake” but I think she wanted to.)
And, okay, it was probably an exasperated sigh.
A few entries ago, I wrote about how your best hope is as likely to occur as your worst fear. Similarly, it’s just as likely you’ll enjoy the consequences of a choice, instead of suffer them. (Once again, I’m cribbing from a daily reading.) And if there’s no decision made at all... well, then we all sit there like lumps. Growing lumpier.
So, I’m off to “wink” and “wave hi” and “nudge” “my matches” into doing the same. (Are we having fun yet, or what?) Then I’m checking into Amway because this job-hunt and market-a-manuscript thing isn’t going that well, either.
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