People have asked me why I don’t take hormone replacements after having a total hysterectomy. I answer with two things:
One: It’s none of their business.
and two: It’s still none of their business.
Why take Meds when you can have a Mutt instead. Just think if every menopausal woman gave up their estrogen suppliments and sublimated with a mongrel why that would….that could…. well that certainly would be a dog day afternoon. Which might carry over to the evening.
Just think, the next time your hormones get in a hissy fit while standing in the long lines at the post office during the Holidays, you can just send your dog in to manage the dirty work. You know what a great relationship dogs have with the postman. wink-wink.
I don’t understand menopause and I don’t think I really want to know why I don’t understand it. I just know that certain uncontrollable urges surge throughout your entire system without an invitation. It’s like there is a huge party going on in your body minus the Host.
I don’t know why women’s bodies have to endure this intrinsic torture. Just because your feminine parts are missing and your hormone system is looking for a valid escape route doesn’t mean you can’t cooperate with the change of life sans drugs. I am suffering the effects of estrogen interruptus and they want to replace it with something synthetic. I say take the synthetic cork out of your Merlot and replace it after you finish the glass.
I recall the reverse happening to me when I was a teen and ready to experience the onset of my menses. I had no clue about hormones or their whereabouts. My menses made no senses, nor was it ever properly explained to me by my mother. The only incidental bypassing of that topic in our household was in pamphlet form secretly passed to you in the hallway on your way to the bathroom.
My “girly hood” wasn’t arriving according to my moms schedule so she took me to the Doctor to get something synthetic to induce the onset of something that will show up eventually. I refused to take this giant horse pill that might make me grow hair in places where is shouldn’t be. My mother gave me a daily dose and I gleefully popped it into my mouth and when she turned her back I unloaded it into the foyer planter. I noticed the African Violets blooming a little early that year…….
Mom’s in those days didn’t discuss the” body and nature” to their budding offspring like they do now. Now there is a universal approach called; over-saturation to a grade school population wearing thongs and experiencing the miracles of Victoria Secret’s push ups..
When my daughter was five she asked the almighty dreaded question of “where do babies come from?”. Being the intellectually older established mom ,I handled this with the utmost concern and delicacy: I panicked and phoned a radio psychologist. This radio personality stated that “you approach the issue in a very adult manner” and “use the anatomical terms in you descriptions, not baby language”.
I went to the nearest kid section in the library and checked out a cartoon version about “how to talk to your kids about sex”. I sat with my daughter and thumbed through the pages reading the book that was suppose to answer all her questions regarding where babies come from and the parts involved in the process. When it came to the highlighted cutsie name of an intimate body part I substituted for the correct anatomical term. I used “Vagina” in place of “pee-pee area”, or “private part”, or “that place you never show anyone until you’re married region”.
After we finished the book I asked my daughter if she had any questions. She sat quiet for a moment then asked if she could go out and play. I could see that this material was way above her head and I should have not heeded the advice of the DJ Doc and dive in feet(?) first. I believed my effort to answer a delicate question went upon deaf kindergarten ears that she needed to grow into. I thought the discussion went well; I covered all pertinent material in an adult fashion and scientific manner.
The following day I went to retrieve my five year old from school and as we waltzed past the array of mothers getting their children from class, my daughter turns around in the crowded corridor and points and yells:
“Do those moms have vagina’s too?”.
It was too late to pass myself off as the Long Lost Aunt merely passing through on her way to Italy. I felt the group glares of motherhood soaring down on me in disgust. I leaned toward my daughter fostering a gritted grin and replied:
“Some do, and some have deep crevices which is an outlet to rent space, which could give them a much needed window of opportunity…”
spread the Humor.