Sweet Nothings

So far this Monday -- and it's just about noontime:

1. There was a big forest-dwelling rat in the downstairs apartment that caused quite a commotion just after 5 a.m. (I should add that I live in a house in a forest where the house was built on top of a lot of animal homes and now the animals, not knowing what kind of house I keep but hoping it's cleaner than dirt, would rather live inside my house than outside in the cold.)
2. It's very windy outside. 
   
3. We had a small earthquake (4.4 outside of Morgan Hill). 
   
4. I'm having my taxes done at 2 p.m. 

Last year, I'd made my tax appointment but canceled last minute because I was still in the throws of chemo and the throws of not caring about the government. They can shove it. I asked my tax guy to file an extension for me but he didn't or maybe he decided the government could shove it too. I didn't care if I ever did my taxes again. In fact, at one point I actually considered dying instead of doing my taxes. It would have made life so much easier.

I spoke to Chris on Sunday. Turns out, his friend Satan never showed to go on the trip. I'm sure Satan has bigger fish to fry -- so many people's lives to ruin. So Chris is traveling throughout Italy and Germany with his German friend, Brunhilda Thomas, and they are having a gay old time. Today they would be in Due Laghi before going back into Germany via the Italian Alps. 

I didn't think I'd miss Chris as much as I do. I told my sister that I spoke with him. I told her too, that I could tell that he was really missing me (he admitted as much). She said, "Good, I'm glad he's suffering." That just cracked me up.

I wonder if he'd be suffering more or less if Satan had gone with him? Actually I already know the answer to that question.

Peacemaker

Yesterday I went to the doctor to complain about my knee because money grows on insurance co-pay trees in California. I sat down with the doctor, talking about my suffering, whining, elaborating on my pain. 

I told the doctor I felt like Goliath. After living with lymphedema, then getting uterine cancer, I was now going to be brought down by this insidious knee pain!? I can't let this knee b.s. get the best of me (more than it has already). (And today I woke up with much less pain - go figure.)

My doctor is a woman, beautiful, thin, active. She's at least ten years younger than me. She listened to my complaining, my pathetic little Davy and Goliath story. She is very compassionate with me. Then she told me that she had to have a pacemaker put in since my last appointment with her in January. I decided to quit whining (at least temporarily).

I received some much needed inspiration from a woman who is (at least) ten years younger than me, who just had surgery to make her heart beat like a normal person.

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Chris left this morning for Italy.

Both Chris and I pre-missed (pre-missing is telling each other how much you're going to miss each other before parting) each other over this past weekend, however, this morning it was sort of a different story, waking up at 5 am, showering and dressing in 20 minutes. I was in gear to get Chris to the airport (or aeroporto as he would already be attempting his pronunciation with the smidgen of Italian he's retained from numerous visits) in a hurry so I could stop and have coffee with Joanne and then get to work by 8 am. I was in the groove, hopping (seriously NOT hopping) in the car, getting out on the road, driving to the big city airport, and saying, "See ya!" I almost didn't get out of the car at the curb to give him a hug goodbye but then I remembered I wasn't just his chauffeur. It was too early, I was still in a trance.

I asked him to bring me back a meaningful souvenir. I said, "Something heart-felt." It will probably be olive oil.

Restaurant Review

Chris received a gift card from someone who obviously hates him good for Marie Callender's restaurant. We went there for dinner the other night armed with the gift card and a coupon from the local paper. Molly decided to join us (either that or stay home and starve. Those are your choices!)

I was surprised when we stepped inside. It's been years since I set foot in one of those restaurants. They have a bakery near the entrance where they have muffins the size of a human head. We couldn't even figure out what they were at first, they were so big -- as were most of the folks eating dinner in the restaurant, even including one waitress. I gotta hand it to her, she is way more mobile than I am though she easily had 100 pounds on me. I'm still whining about my knee pain, and this woman is running around waiting tables!

Just yesterday on the radio I heard Dr. Dean Edel say that inside every fat person is an Arnold Schwarcheneggar pleading to get out. Inside every fat person is a super strong person who's able to haul around all the extra weight on their bodies, and some do it with such ease, it's impressive. But if I put all the weight I've lost into some sort of backpack and tried to haul it around, I'd collapse. Come to think of it, if I had to haul around all the weight I've lost over the years, I'd need a freight liner.

A meeting of a local Goldwing group filled the banquet room next to the room where we were seated. All the folks in the Goldwing meeting were big. A woman just the other side of our Marie Callender-*decorative* style room window, took out some sort of stick (or maybe it was her fork) and started to scrape at her back. She was really into it - (Marie Callender's wants you to feel as if you're at home in their restaurant). I had to look away. I don't think this woman realized she was performing her hygienic ritual in full view of our table. We had the window view to her backside. I thought it was a strange thing to do in a restaurant. My mind started working. What is she scraping off? I prayed that whatever it was didn't fall off, land near the window and scramble off while we were getting ready to eat our dinner. 

You can order salad at Marie Callender's. My salad arrived garnished with deep-fried green beans, dressing filling a gravy boat. The dressing was mayonnaise-y with something mixed in it that made the dressing too spicy. Molly had chicken pot pie because she is young. Chris ordered a reuben with fries because he's delusional. Molly liked her crust and said the "chicken was weird." Chris said his reuben was not that good. He dipped his fries in the mayonnaise-y filled gravy boat while Molly ate limp "baby" carrots and green-mucky looking "veggies." My salad was okay. I ate about ten bites, giving the rest to Chris who finished it. I also ordered a glass of very special Marie Callender Pinot Grigio 2018 that immediately dyed my chest a bright red color. (Thank you, menopause!)

A young mother in the banquet room held her tiny, maybe two week old baby. Mom was a big girl though the baby could have been a bookmark. When the mother left her booth, another guy wedged into her place. He looked as if he'd need a belly-horn (the belly version of a shoe-horn) to stuff himself into the same spot. He had no trouble filling up the entire side of the booth.

Not that many years ago I had my own trouble squeezing into restaurant booths. No complaints about knee pain back then. And here I was at Marie Callender's having a quasi-reunion dinner with some of my peeps and they were none the wiser for it. 

I wonder how their knees hold up? And why are mine giving out under the pressure? How is it that these BIG folks can ride a Goldwing all day or do they? Only one of them brought his bike that night -- maybe it was too cold outside. Maybe they save their youth and vigor for sunny days on the weekend. Sometimes I think in mid-life, all these cars and motorcycles we buy are part of a costume anyway - as long as we can afford to get dressed up like that.

Sometimes I wonder if my physical body is just not meant to be on this planet all that long, and if this is true, that possibility makes me sad. I suppose it's conceivable that I have used up my youth and vigor on all the warm, sunny weekends past. No Goldwing in my future, no scratching my back with my fork in a public restaurant in the banquet room, and lord knows, no more gravy boats filled with mayonnaise dressing. Please.

The night we went to dinner at Marie Callender's, I felt relatively (speaking), thin. If it weren't for Marie Callender's food, I might just go back again for a confidence boost.

Good Old Fashioned Medicated Goo

I promised a  post of my visit with Dr. Le Pew. The visit was fine. He asked me about my French. I shrugged the question off -- I don't even try to ruin the French language. He made a joke. I can't recall what the joke was now but I remember laughing, and my laughter felt genuine, not the usual nervous, gynecological-doctor-visit-fake laughter. I had to wait for him for over an hour, undressed "from the waist down," sitting on the too small exam table. He had to tell the patient right before me that she had cancer. 

The most important thing was that while he was searching he didn't find anything. Though I don't expect him to find anything. If he found something, you'd probably hear me yelling. Or maybe I'd be calm? Hopefully I'll never learn the answer to that question.

The doctor and I discussed dry vah-j-jays. That's a common theme for me these days. I try to bring the subject up with just about anyone who will listen (in the library, grocery stores, blogs) though I mostly hit up folks in the medical profession. I like to see how they're going to respond because it's not a subject they seem to want to discuss or that has been my experience to date. Most doctors have turned their heads, mumbled a few words, pointing to bottles of goo on the counter in their exam rooms, stuff they use during exams with their latex gloves.

At my age and condition, we really need a definitive cure for the Mojave vah-j-jay. I believe the medical profession, and perhaps society at large want us to dry up and blow away (and most of all, please, please, please stop bringing up the subject of vaginal dryness!) (This is the point where you plug both your ears, saying aloud numerous times, "flower, bunny, flower, bunny" repeating as long as I continue to write about dry vaginas.) Yet, there's a segment of the dried out (or drying out) population that still wants to enjoy life, and part of living includes intimacy. We still want to express intimacy in only the way we know best - yelling at our lovers, "Please get off! You're hurting me!"

I have spent tons of hard earned cash on lubric?nts (don't get me started on the money I've lost in the stock market that would have been better spent on lube). If anyone has a super special suggestion, a cure-all for V dryness (latex friendly), let me know. I will call a town hall meeting and announce the news to all the folks with which I've been in discussion with on this very subject. In the meantime, I'll keep expressing my intimacy here.

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off!

I have not written anything because my knee hurts and my knee is directly connected to any creativity I am able to muster. Lately I am feeling creatively inept (among other inepts).

My body feels as if it's aging way before I want it to age; actually wouldn't mind sliding through without any feeling of age. I wish I'd known things would hurt back when I was age 13. I would have used a lot more illicit drugs as a teenager.

I felt sad about my physical body (as opposed to my non-physical body?) earlier this weekend, actually felt like crying. Too much feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I am depressed? This is a conundrum with which I can't quite reconcile -- my body's lack of cooperation along with my brain behaving in what I feel is a very cooperative manner. Is the body just going so soon? Am I spending too much time wondering if my body is shot or am I typical of my age for aches and pains? 

Someone please answer that question so I can get on with my life. 

How 'bout some creative hair? 

Shrunken Survivors

I've been busy reading a book entitled Shrink Yourself about emotional eating and food addiction. Then, because it's so easy to switch books with a Kindle, I downloaded another book called The Survivors Club. I figured I'd get so incredibly thin from reading Shrink Yourself that I'd have to know how to survive once I reached my goal weight.

The Survivors Club is fascinating. I figured I'd be reading about myself inside the book but the author hasn't heard about me yet so I have to read about other people but I'm okay with that. The author provides in depth research on people who have survived some pretty heinous situations. Fires, knitting needles, mountain lion attacks and cancer etc.  The stories are gripping. I mean to the point where it's difficult to put the book down. I thought it would be one of those dreaded self-help type books and I would punish myself for staying alive by reading it. The author highlights many of the common characteristics of survivors. Of course I'm trying desperately to relate all of the good characteristics to myself and enjoying loads of success in that vein.

Shrink Yourself is different. The author writes straightforward about the nuttiness of eating simply because you're excited, depressed or breathing. Because I have been all three of those things, this book speaks to me though I have not cured myself completely as of yet. The cure is right around the corner. I feel it. (Right after I enjoy this candy bar...)

I'm off to my French lessons with the gynecologist. Will let you know how the appointment goes. 

Joyeux Anniversaire!

March 17th is my one year "chemoversary" marking the end of chemotherapy. I'm thrilled because, like any sane person when I was first told I had cancer, I thought I only had hours to live. Here I am a year later, still on the planet, alive, grateful and hairier.

During my oncology appointment yesterday, I was given the results of my blood work from end of February. I am cancer-free (and so are you!) I asked him to tell me that I am cured. He said he couldn't but I told him to say it anyway. He did. (I can be pretty bossy at times.) I was given the results of my CAT scan, plus a copy of the results where my body shows no signs of any nastiness (outside of an occasional bad 'tude, and fortunately, attitude does not show up on x-ray or insurance would not cover mine.)

My next doctor appointment is Wednesday. I can hardly wait to see Dr. Le Pew, my gynecological oncologist. The added pressure of not having learned French for our visits causes a bit of anxiety, and anyone with half a brain knows that anxiety is a direct cause of cancer. Isn't it? Anxiety-producing demands on patients means life time job security for the doctor while I wonder how long I have left; life and job!?

I really dislike ze docteur spelunking (there is no French word for spelunking) with his rubber-gloved hand while checking for tumors but someone's got to do it. That's why he makes the big bucks while the rest of the nation hovers near unemployment.

Je t'amie ma cavern, Docteur? 

Ninja Parents

Over the weekend, Chris was asked by his daughter if she could spend the night at her new boyfriend's house? I want her to quit asking these questions.  In fact, I want to file a cease and desist order against questions having to do with boyfriends and sex. 

'Until you're 18 and have money for rent and birth control, he cannot spend the night here and you cannot spend the night there. Stop asking because we're not going to change our minds.' 

Chris and I have been talking about teenage sex - not because we enjoy it but because we can't quite figure out how NOT to contribute to it unless it's our own wild teenage sex (and believe me, it's not!) 

For instance, I don't think we should pay for Victoria's Secret bras or panties nor do I think we should pay for Frederick's of Hollywood corsets or anything with tassels. I don't think we need to buy condoms or birth control pills or Jenna's Perfect Pair. I'm of the mind --if you want to play, you gotta pay. I am also of the mind that it's time for Planned Parenthood because condoms are not foolproof contraception. If you're gonna take on the more adult responsibilities of random, casual sexual behavior, you have to be able to back up to those responsibilities with cash and maturity, like a hooker and a pimp. Needless to say...

Seems the kids want to be adults in many ways, they can't wait to grow up yet they still want to be Ninja Turtles, pirates and Barbie dolls, spending days giggling and goofing off, in between sex romps. They sure as hell don't want to have any real adult responsibilities. 

Chris admits he still wants to be a part-time Ninja and I'm all for hanging out in PeeWee's Playhouse. I love to talk like a pirate, me hearties. Why do we have to stop playing games in order to parent you if you don't have to stop being a kid in order to grow up?