Blogger’N Hell…

One of my favorite authors wrote a book in the 70’s entitled; “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank”.  I was barely out of high school when I became a big fan of Erma Bombeck.  I found her to be one of the most clever humorists on this globe and was particularly enchanted that she was nearing fifty when her books began to orbit the planet.   Impressive.   She built her career with articles which lead to best sellers based on her suburban home life, possibly some whilst in the midst of menopause.  Most impressive.

I loved her her work and often wondered how she  might have come up with the novel idea of the a fore mentioned  title.  I asked myself if maybe she was just sitting outside taking a quiet moment from the chaos of motherhood to watch the grass grow;  or perhaps  chasing after the crazy dog that ran out of the house with a Bra clenched between his canines and tripped over the cesspool cover causing a fall face down onto a greener pasture……….like I encountered.

However  the case, I commend her creative thought.   Imagine that book’s title had Erma lived on the Public sewer system.

My blog titles may not make sense to anyone but me. My format is to think of the heading first, then eventually fill in the puzzle with pieces of nonsense, quasi truths , and an added touch of experience and observation. For example: Blogger’N Hell.  I think of the expression “Hotter’N Hell”,  and obviously replacing a word in the phrase with the term Blog, either in past, present, or future tense.  My idea for this technique is not ingenious for I was new to the blogging world and had no idea at the time ,what in the hell I was doing.  The titles I came up with stem from a  catch phrase, or maybe a song, or some slogan I overheard while shopping for eggs. Then I laugh to myself as I enter the letters onto my keyboard to layout the Post Heading. I am smiling because I have no inkling what the body of the blog will contain.  I am a massive free-floater.

The title “Blogger’N Hell” made me think of Heat. Not Satan’s fiery Hell, but the earth’s climate in general.  Summer has past and the Fall’s atmospheric conditions showed signs of  sun and wind, ergo, I decided to dress warmly today. I grabbed last seasons leggings and covered them with a sweater dress , slipped on some wilted suede boots and a leather jacket to  head outside and walk the dog.  I barely got down to the end of the lane when I felt the sweat forming at the temples of my tinted hairline. I should have watched the morning news as the weather-person predicted temperatures in the 70’s.

Lately I have been having difficulty with the fluctuation of temperatures and I don’t mean of the external kind. Menopause and I are having a temporary battle of the bulge and sweats which do not coincide with the rest of the environment. My intrinsic Meteorologist has its own agenda. This attack of my internal global warming is causing a meltdown of decision making every time I enter my closet to dress for the day.  I spin my wardrobe wheel of fortune to help with the days pick of attire as I listen to the hormones whispering their “Yays” or “Nays”.  While my tempered hands glide across fabrics, I sense the Goldilocks  syndrome chiming in: “This Cashmere  sweater is too hot!”…..”This cotton shirt is too cold!”…..”This ugly-ass pair of sweat pants is juuussst right!”.  So I put on the cotton shirt, pull the cashmere sweater over my head, and jump into the ugly -ass sweats as I give the rest of my closet the finger.

Temperatures rising and falling biologically can explain certain side effects  a woman  in her fifties might encounter that cause her thought process to detour or stray.  For instance, someone in the drones of menopause may start the day off at her computer wanting to write about Global Warming in relation to the Earth, but end up in stead, twisting her genre to center around her hot-flashes.

When I  keyed in the Title, Blogger’N Hell I was going to rant about the cause or causes of Global Warming………………..from my viewpoint.

Ok, here goes:

Personally I think the polar ice caps are melting due to the fact  that has been overlooked for a long time. In 2010 the population of the States was 308.7 million  and I read a stat that showed  a rough estimate that 49% are male and 51% are female.  Of the 51% of females around 26% are women between the ages of 45 and 64. Now ,if I may estimate or Guess-timate to divide the country in half  lengthwise and roughly focus solely on the female population in the 45-64 age group that dwell below the 37th parallel, I might inject a reasonable fact that maybe…just maybe a very high percentage of these women could possibly be experiencing symptoms or are in full blown menopause.  AND keep in mind the geographical area of where they live; Southern California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida to name just a few parts of the United States that harbor temperatures in triple digits that can process humidity which will frizz the near bald head of a new born.

Now here’s my theory as to why all this is melting away.

If you are experiencing menopause under normal temperatures even in the dead of a winter blizzard you will find yourself dressed in your home in nothing but your underwear. The rest of your family will be appropriately attired and dialing their cellphones to reach a psychiatric unit to commit you.  So…Imagine the percentage of  women  aged 45-64 that reside in the unbearable heated climates below the 37th parallel  going through menopause and looking for a place to cool off and fan their internal heat fueled by a hormonal imbalance. Imagine. Where to go to retreat the heat.

THEY ALL MOVE RESIDENCE TO THE POLAR REGION.  All 26.4%  migrate to places like; The Yukon Territory, Siberia,Antarctica, or The Icebox of the Nation; Fraser, Colorado.   Imagine, all those menopausal women  that have been basking in sunshine and heat for the majority of their lives taking refuge in sub zero temperatures to seek relief, soaking their over heated bodies into the cool temps offered up by Jack Frost. This could react in a massive menopausal melting pot.  Why the internal heat alone from this 26.4%  would radiate into the Alps causing an avalanche of epic proportion.  This internal heat filters out of the menopausal body into the frozen environment as women scream out their cries of joy: “Ice Ice Baby”.  This, my blogger friends, is the cause of global warming.

I’m sure Erma would agree. Maybe she’d  a had another best seller with titles that include:

” The Ice Melts Faster if You Sit On It.” or ” Menopause..Into the White, the Other Side of Fifty Shades of Grey” or ” My Hormones Caused an Avalanche Over Alaska”, or “High Anxiety”, or “Incontinence…The Eighth Continent”.

Erma would have a hay day..she’d be dancing around to Nelly Lyrics….

spread the humor

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OK…let’s talk GYN.  For those Old Ancestor’s that cringe at this topic…plug your eyes.  I’m not talking about the GIN that I tasted from my fathers basement bar, although I could just Tanqueray all  day on that topic, all the way to Bombay……..No my Beef– that is eating me is what goes on behind closed stirrups.  First and foremost I would like to know why should a person who is missing internal feminine reproductive body parts need to visit the Gyno anyway?  Why that’s like taking your car into the garage for tune up without an engine present. What are they going to see? The Rabbit hole. Maybe find Alice hosting a tea party atop your bladder. More sugar please.…oh wait I have type two diabetes…..”That’s splenda!” yells the Mad Hatter.

No, the Gyn Dr. needs to check you out just to make sure nothing has imploded or fallen through the black hole.  I thought my days hopping up in the stirrups had ceased since the hysterectomy but Dr. Dale Evans and nurse Roy Rogers say to  “giddy-up” and “saddle-in” cause we’re “gunna have a look-see”… After the Doc dons her Minor’s helmet with the glowing headlight attached and buries her head under a sheet that barely covers your thighs, she then starts to investigates what is MINE. No noticeable nuggets noted. I read her notes. I don’t know which is worse,  lying there while the Dr.  shines a spotlight between your legs and holding a silent conversation with your vagina, or after the exam having to discuss face to face  what the findings are. These visits in the past always went relatively swift and you were in and out faster than my first boyfriend in high school. It’s the conversation at the end that I’d like to omit.  My Gyno made a gesture toward small talk and brought up my having taken a trip to Italy and then we ended with talking about bladder infections and sex with  husband’s after a dry spell. Then she added: “So, how’d that go?”. ……  “Oh it was O.K.”, I sheepishly said , and I continued; ” you know…being over fifty, and well, not being as active as we were in our thirties…”smirk..smirk…..Then it dawned on me she was referring to the trip to Italy…not the sex with the husband. I love awkward silence. I haven’t felt that since my ass woke up first from my colonoscopy and played a spontaneous round of  Beethoven’s 5th in Gas Minor….accompanied by a paper gown that was blown open between beats….

The last time I found myself in a backward gown I was having an MRI done for a back injury.  My physician thought it best to prescribe a mild opiate to take prior to the procedure because I am deathly claustrophobic. I think that stems from when I was six my brother sealed me in the cardboard box that the dishwasher came in and he neglected to add air holes. I pity the siblings of the guy that invented the MRI machine……..My orthopedic doctor gave me five pills of five milligrams each and told me to “take as needed for relaxation”. I asked  him what the maximum dosage that one could ingest before I ended up in a coma or  wearing a toe tag. He informed me that I could take all five and would  be fine. Well….  while sitting in the waiting room of the Diagnostic Imagery office I felt the anxiety starting to rise up in me as I envisioned myself in a tube with no movement or windows, or, God forbid…air holes. I popped one of those pills and waited 15 minutes and felt nothing but more anxiety so I popped another. I started to feel a little woozy in the waiting room and I didn’t want other patients to notice my odd behavior or drooling so I tried to act as normal as possible.  I reached for a magazine to read.  One of the attendants called my name and had me rise and follow her to the changing area.  My rubber legs made it to the dressing room and I plopped down onto a bench still clutching the Tabloid.  I barely recall changing into the backless gown, but I did, and I continued to sit on the bench with my legs crossed and attempted to read my magazine….which I was holding upside down.  The last thing I remember is sliding off the bench and slipping through the curtain onto the floor in the hallway of the MRI room and doing a face plant on the Sexiest Man Alive with my Hind End pointing a Southern exposure facing the waiting room. Apparently I had picked out the November 2006 issue of People from the lobby. I do remember the MRI machine and giggling like a lunatic who has escaped  the psych ward in the asylum. And I would like to apologize to all the staff at the Imagery Office who gave up their lunch hour to assist me back into the upright position and lead me back  to my clothes and sent me home in a cab.…….

Although I do need to remember to mail their gown back….right after I refill my GIN glass……….spread the humor…