Fuck that shit!

Every year our insurance company has us take a health assessment so we can get a discount on our coverage.
I just completed mine.
I realize I am overweight. Obese, even. But the assessment just told me I need to lose sixty to NINETY pounds to be in the "healthy" range.
I haven't weighed NINETY pounds less than I do now since middle school. I was shorter, had much smaller breasts, had not given birth, was 27 years younger and people thought I was too skinny!
If I lost NINETY pounds at this point in my life, people would most definitely think I was terminally ill.
I wouldn't mind losing some weight; this is true. Due to certain health circumstances this would be difficult for me even if I was motivated and not moderately lazy and not in love with food (I don't eat a lot of food or much junk food at all, but I do eat what I like); but there is no way in HELL that I want to look like I would look if I lost NINETY pounds.
So...
Like the title says:
FUCK THAT SHIT!

How to Feel Twenty Years Younger

• Go to a concert with a girlfriend and gab like kids the whole way there, the whole way back and everytime the music is not blaring.
• Be a tad saucy, but still very sweet, with the bartenders when ordering drinks. They'll like your attitude--and maybe your cleavage--and serve you faster next time.
• Enjoy and dance a little during the opening band, even if you haven't heard of them before, and vow to find their stuff online when you get home.
• Let a guy old enough to be your dad buy "a pretty young lady" (you) a shot of whiskey.
  
• Squeal like a teenager when the lights go down and the band's "coming out" song comes on. Especially when it actually is a song you loved as a teen.
• Squeal like a "tween" when the band actually comes out.
• Bounce like a fool to every single song. (Until you're sweating like a freak and dripping on strangers, but don't give two shits, because you're having so much fucking fun.)
• About two-thirds of the way through the show, yell, "I'm going in!" And bounce into the throng of sweating, shoving, bouncing overgrown frat boys up front. (Even if you have to come back out one song later because there is no oxygen up there... Revel a bit when a couple of young, cute guys give you attaboys on the way out.)
• During the first encore say, "Fuck it." And throw yourself back up front.
• Laugh, but still feel flattered, when you are offered a hand up so you can crowd surf during the second encore.
• Hang out up front after the show to get a set list. And actually get one before the other young cuties get theirs.

Good times.

One pill makes you larger...

Warning: TMI to follow. Proceed at your own risk.

Watch out folks! It's time for Aunt Flo's visit. Her stays are much shorter lately, but she is one mean motherfucker when she's here. I guess she's getting ornery in her old age...
And this morning she has decided to roundhouse kick me repeatedly in my gut.
I sometimes get some relief from two "Premenstrual Symptom Relief" pills (Rite Aid store brand, of course) which have acetaminophen, pamabrom and pyrilamine maleate. And when it's an awful day--worse than today--I'll take two acetaminophen with codeine for some--but not total--relief. But right now I'm somewhere in between. Thus, I have decided to take one of each instead of two of one or the other.
Experiments in chemistry, folks. It's what I do.
Also? If you stop by? I am not being intimate with my heating pad wrapped pillow. It just kind of looks like that, so get your mind out of the gutter. Also, you better bring Peanut Chews, or I'll kick you the hell out. Well, Aunt Flo will. I can't be held responsible for what she does...

An Addendum

As a child we did have some family dinners at my Grandma and Grandpa Taylor's house and, usually, it was spaghetti if it wasn't a picnic or a holiday.

There was always a bag of sliced bread (often Vim), a tub of margarine (Parkay, maybe?), the crock full of spaghetti sauce and a Fire King Tulip motif mixing bowl full of San Giorgio spaghetti.

When I was older and living on my own--maybe even after I had my own children--I asked my grandma for her spaghetti sauce recipe, because I remembered how much I loved those meals.

It was then I learned that frying up some burger, tossing it in some Ragu, doctoring it with several "salts"--you know: celery, garlic and onion--and letting it simmer for a while, maybe even in a crockpot was a simple thing that could make your grandchildren think you were a real Italian chef.

It ain't Grey's Freakin' Anatomy, people.

So if you know me, you know I've been bitchin' about an annoying health "thing" for a while now. This post is about that, and poo--lots of poo, and lady parts. You've been warned...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


For about five months or so I've been suffering from chronic diarrhea which on some days is annoying and on others interferes with day-to-day life. Since I was very young, I have suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome with chronic constipation, so the turn five months ago was concerning, but I didn't go to the doctor. But the other month Nate said to me, "Between the diarrhea and the increased joint pain, this is the sickest I've ever seen you. You should see a doctor." Nate never suggests going to the doctor, so I made the appointment.

They horrified my fecal-phobic ass by making me do myriad versions of "sample" collection. I'm still traumatized. I'm not joking.

All cultures and tests, including the bloodwork and urine were "totally normal." "Probably just your IBS. Here's some IBS meds." They didn't seem to be worried that thirty-some years of constipation had suddenly done a 180° . Surprisingly [/sarcasm], the meds have not been helping.

This whole thing got me pondering another problem I've been having, but assumed was just due to my advancing--ahem!--maternal age. Shorter, heavier periods; debilitating cramps pre-, peri- and post-menstrually; lower back pain during the same time period which leaves me wondering why I was such a cry-baby during labor. Putting that together with the immediate problem and the history of "lady troubles" in my family, I decided a call to my friendly gynecologist's office was, perhaps, in order.

Today I called, told the receptionist my symptoms and was promptly put on hold. I thought she was trying to find an appointment for me. She came back on the line and told me the doc-on-call or the triage nurse would call me back for the fastest available appointment. Huh? Well, that didn't sound very good.

A nurse called me back and asked me repeatedly about fibroids and my family history of endometriosis and so on...told me they'd see me on the 6th and that they might want to do an ultrasound for the fibroids and "maybe check some other things." She didn't seem interested in the poly-cystic ovary syndrome at all, so I'm guessing that is probably not the problem. Gah. Fine.

I'd already talked to Nate and Dawn and Vicki about the possibility of endo and my fear of having a hysterectomy and perhaps even oophorectomy.

All I'd ever wanted was to be a stay-at-home mother of two children. Nate wanted a stay-at-home mother to seven children. We compromised on five. I then set my heart on five. We had names selected and everything. Due to various health problems, all of my docs and Nate decided for my stubborn butt that I was done with my baby-making. I often miss the ones we never had. The miscarriage and all of the babies my friends and family are recently cranking out don't help quell my baby-lust. A final judgment on the closing of the baby factory will definitely break me for a while.

I loved being pregnant, nursing, raising my children. I hate being told I cannot do something. The possibilities are not pretty. I was just coming to terms with being in perimenopause but it gave me years to get used to the idea. So while it would be nice to be rid of the suck going on in my belly once and for all, it would be quite difficult if the result is removal of some of my lady bits.

One possible plus: I told Nate if I am seriously done being pregnant forever and part of my lady-ness is taken away, then he will be paying for the tummy tuck of my dreams. Buh-bye c-section flap. (Am I right, ladies?) I think I convinced him when I said if any of his "man parts" had to be removed, I would totally let him get the red, fast convertible muscle car he would surely long for. He seemed to consider this a reasonable argument.

Stay tuned. My appointment is October 6th.

With age you get more makeup. No eggroll for you!

From time to time I receive free books or products and a few years ago I was sent a reverse lip liner. Do you know what this is? It is, basically, a clear wax pencil which you use to line around you lips--instead of the inside the edge of your lips--and the wax supposedly keeps the lipstick from "bleeding" or "feathering" around your mouth. I thought, at the time, "What? Who the heck needs this?"
I have a real purty mouth and have always loved lipstick. I've never used lip liner with any regularity and certainly did not think I needed this weird product.
Then, some weeks back, I noticed that it had been (as my bestie says) yonks since I had done a brash red lip. And I realized this was because the last few times I had done such a lip and then went out, the lipstick did not just come off or disappear when I ate or drank, but seemed to spread out until I ended up looking like Bozo. Even if you redo your lip in this situation, you still have a faint stain around your mouth when using the highly pigmented reds I adore.
So, the other night, while at home, I took the reverse lip liner (brand unspecified here, lol) for a test run. I figured if I was relaxing at home I would act naturally regarding my lipstick since it didn't really matter if I ended up looking like a clown or Courtney Love. (Wait. Is that redundant?) I used the reverse liner, MAC Ruby Woo lippy and MAC Russian Red Tinted Lipglass over it. I ate and drank and putzed around. Then I looked in the mirror. And, yes, I needed to reapply. But I did not have a ring-around-the-mouth situation going on.
Now, you may wonder why you had to endure a post about makeup. But this post is not about makeup. (And, no, this is not a Jedi mind trick.)
See, what I realized was that by admitting that I was getting a bit older and maybe the teeniest-tiniest bit wrinkled that I was able to readjust my routine and once again enjoy something as simple as a bright red lip during a night on the town. Now if I could apply that to my Getting Shit Done (GSD™) list, I might actually get shit done.