All Aboard to Ladytown and Boobyville (not a men’s blog)


My daughter is a modest child.  I cannot conceive of where she gets this trait.  Even as a kid, I would whip off my clothes to swim or run through the sprinkler.  My mother caught me showing off my parts to the little boy next door and I was summarily sent to the “switch” tree to choose a limb with which I would be whacked.  There was lots of skinny dipping as a teen and in those college years came the advent of the hot tub.

Today, at my ripe old age, I would need at least two weeks of prep time before I could even begin to think about getting into a hot tub with others.  No carbs could be consumed, there would need to be a good bit of epilation and it would have to coincide with a “good booby day”.  In other words, it might not occur except during a comet.

It occurs to me that I require a lot of prep in general now.  I have scheduled these two weeks as my doctor weeks for the year.  Doctors?  Yes, plural.

I was married 8 years before my first child came along.  In those years, our insurance company was laughing all the way to the bank as neither I nor the Goose made one doctor visit.  Upon having a baby, I was gobsmacked to learn all that’s involved with body maintenance.  After my babies, I again drifted into no man’s land for years with no medical upkeep.  When my mother died, I figured out that she had not visited a doctor in 43 years.  She fully believed that once you let ‘em in, you never get away and I’m beginning to find this is true.

Today I’m at the breast doctor. Driving down here, I was listening to a Kanye song that starts out “weeping and a moaning and a gnashing of teeth” and that refrain has been playing in my mind while I wait.  This is a three hour ordeal where lots of woman are sitting around in blue robes, like at the spa, and waiting to be called for a squeeze and a picture, NOT like at the spa.  Sometimes there are strangled screams from behind closed doors. This is not as fun as it sounds.  There is a drink machine, but not the right kind to make it okay for a stranger to  wrestle with me while feeling me up.  I keep thinking this is NOT a good thing going on here and I feel kinda resentful that I was  told that my breasts were dense.  I have a snappy comeback, but it just seems downright rude, and I got a “look” when I giggled at the nurses cold hands, so I’ll keep these things to myself. Apparently, there is no humor in boobland.

ImageTomorrow’s appointment is with my dermatologist, who will remove a small part of my facial expression for a lot of money.

Next comes the gynecologist who does things to my Ladytown that any other man would need at least two drinks and a bracelet to try.

My point, ladies, is that it takes a village to just stay even now.  Remember just rolling out of bed, in last night’s mascara and pulling on jeans off the floor that were baggy because you just lost weight as you slept?  Remember partying at night and waking up without a face as puffy as Mayor McCheese? I hate it that I’ve had to break up with french fries and nachos.  I want to tell them I really miss them and never stopped loving them.  I dream of them.

All my life, I thought I would get to a “certain age” and stop having to worry about it.  Our mother’s generation did.  They went to get their hair done once a week, wore a girdle and ate whatever they wanted.  Like a donkey following a carrot on a stick, I’ve been following this dream.  Now, it looks like the reality IS the carrot, not the carrot cake.  There are no girdles for us, no wash and set perms.  Where are our turbans?  Our mumus?  Gliding through middle age trying to look like a teenager, feel like a 20 year old and think like an adult is not all it’s cracked up to be.  Somehow, I’ve exchanged my spring breaks for doctor’s week.  Not a fair trade at all!

The Scary Hag in the Kitchen


This morning, after the cleaning massacre in three part harmony that occurred here yesterday, I laid around in my jammies and made a doctor’s appointment or two.  Or six.  


All my life, except for one small event, I’ve been super healthy.  I eat right, I exercise, I take a giant handful of vitamins everyday, twice a day.  I drink only water and, just a tad of alcohol.  No milk, no sodas, I never have. I juice kale, for crying out loud.  I have a LOT of energy.  Lots of it.  I know my family wishes I had a bit less. 


I’ve also been someone who scoffs at those with allergies, those with nasty, rashy skin, those complaining of aches and pains.  I am now shouting to the universe “I’M SORRY!!!!”.  I take it back.  All of it.  I’m sorry I made a mean high school girl’s face at people covered in pink calamine lotion.  I’m sorry I laughed at those with poison ivy woes, those with inhalers.  I really and truly apologize.  Please, karma, don’t let it be wine to which I’m allergic.  I promise to send in my St. Jude’s donation.  I promise not to swear at slow drivers (when they can actually read my lips and hand signals.  I feel that’s a good compromise.)


This summer, coming home from the lake, I developed a weird rash that covered me in pink camouflage by evening.  I went to a doc in the box, had a shot that hurt WAY more than it should, plus the added injustice of showing my spot riddled tee-hiney to a doctor half my age.  All was fine.  Then, months later, it happened again, out of the blue.  Again, I did the same thing but picked an older, less attractive doctor.  This Christmas, it came back with a vengeance.  This time, on my FACE.  My left eye swelled so that I resembled Marty Feldman.  I produced a bright red flush around my mouth that looked like I had forgotten to wash off Halloween makeup.  


So now, it’s returning.  This morning, I called an allergist.  I also called my breast care specialist, my gynecologist, my hormone doctor, my dermatologist because all this frowning has caused me to be able to form an expression and that, at least, I know can be remedied for four months with a shot!  I need to see the eye doctor, because I never have and I find that the world has taken on a fuzzy look but I found a really cute paisley pair of reading glasses at the dollar store and I’m just going to stick with that.  I’m scared of what I’ll see if I really can see.


Most of all, I called my hair dresser, who really can make a difference. 


The Goose was dilly-dallying around in the kitchen while I was making these appointments, waiting for his magic work pill to kick in, and I realized he was giving me serious and concerned glances.  Not the glances that say “hey, you’re looking kinda good here in this gloomy kitchen light” or “gee, I have never loved you more”.  It was more of the kind of glance Dorothy gave the Wizard when she pulled away the curtain.  

Girls, I realize now that I negligently made a classic mistake this morning.  Never, never, never let them see what keeps us propped up and looking like we’re 25.  Okay, 35.  Well, looking a little less like Mrs. Doubtfire.  I might as well been sitting there in a girdle and curlers with a cigarette hanging from my lips.  


I have no answers for how to remedy this.  I am scared of this old age thing. I was sure it would never find me.  I thought I was exempt since I still think I’m 16 inside. I’m going to work on it today, though. I will be braving the cold day with my top down (my car, not my shirt, dear God no), I am going to listen to rap. I might have to reach back into the knowledge of “What Would Doris Day Say?” and buy an actual negligée, I might have to wear gold lame, a push up bra and heels.  I know that I will not be bending over, with a giant swollen eye, in flannel jammies, picking up the poo Matilda left under the piano when the Goose comes back in tonight, though.  That probably wasn’t me at my best.  


10 Things that Confuse Me Today


  1. Why a dog will stand and bark for 20 minutes at a napkin ring that has rolled under the table in the dining room until I come and tell him it’s okay, I see it.  Then it is, apparently, fine. 
  2. Why the Goose can drink six Mountain Dews a day, a sleeve of cookies and three giant meals and remain slim while I exist on two celery sticks, one saltine and one chardonnay.  Seems downright unchivalrous. 
  3. Why people are interested in celebrities.  I don’t get it.  When I have been forced to watch TMZ, I don’t know anyone except Donny Osmond and Cher.  How do people keep up with these HoneyJerseyHousewifyboo people and WHY? Isn’t life interesting enough right outside our doors, if not quite as trashy? 
  4. Why anyone enjoys Christmas at all.  It seems like a big ol’ mess to me.  
  5. Why a woman, with H1N1, a throbbing ovarian cyst and a mortal shaving injury can still do six loads of laundry, find tights that match her daughter’s outfit, mentally located her teen aged son anywhere in the cosmos at any given second, run five miles, uphill, and still keep her home smelling like lemons while a man can sneeze and take to the bed, moaning and crying for soup like he enjoyed, from a dented, discounted can, when he lived with his mother, and no one even questions it. 
  6. Why someone can’t find an earth changing use for those “silk” ficus trees from the eighties.  Everyone had one, some had two.  No one has them now.  There must be a giant “silk” ficus forest somewhere.  Could they be used in prisons?  I think this is a thought for our representatives. 
  7. Why do we continually allow everyone to think for us?  My car tells me when and how to back up, my appliances tell me what they’re thinking, 20/20 tells me how large my meal from McDonalds should be, my government tells me everything else.  My inner rebellious princess is getting pretty tired of it all.  Am I normal? Isn’t anyone else feeling like they want to be a little, I don’t know, deviant?  I may have to roll someone or something. Graffiti anyone? 
  8. Why do strangers sometimes call me “hon”.  Sounds snippy, I know, but it makes me really cranky.  The Goose gets nervous when a waitress directs a “hon” toward me.  My gentleman neighbor calls me “little princess” and I’m good with that.  “Hon”, however, makes me want to snap my gum and order chili and black coffee from a woman named Flo.  I just don’t like it. 
  9. Gravity.  I include this for my daughter, who worries about me and my Dekalb County education.  As evidenced in a conversation with her recently,  “gravity, it just don’t make sense”. 
  10. How is it a house that looked sparkly and clean in the morning can look like a crack house by 6:30 in the evening?  In a direct link to number 9, is it possible there are small gravity deposits under the floor and on the bench in the mudroom, under the counters, under every surface within 30 feet of the door that would cause people to throw down their mail, books, scarves, jackets, cups still full of red colored drinks, shoes, bras (!?!) or anything they wanted out of their cars and LEAVE them there until   they are put away.  Bowls and plates of food, NEXT TO THE SINK!  Does anyone every wonder how they get put away?  People today are too soft, brought up with fairy tales and elves. I think family members need to be sat down and told the truth about the chore fairy, shown a picture of her haggard self, low on botox and hair color, pajamas held up by one remaining strand of elastic, swollen eyes from wine and salty food consumption.  Show them the real truth, the crime scene photos, the haggard mess the chore fairy has become, and maybe, just maybe, we can save the chore fairy.  Every time a cup is placed in the dishwasher, a chore fairy loses a wrinkle.  I do believe, I do.