Category: blog

For our second night in Portland our host made dinner reservations, “A friend recommended it – it is supposed to be ‘authentic Portland.'”

 

As we were tooling around town the day of the reservation she received a call to confirm our time. “They must be pretty busy,” she told us. To ensure we did not miss our reservation and because we were all quite hungry we arrived at the restaurant approximately fifteen minutes early – good timing considering it was tucked away in an industrial away and not entirely easy to find.

 

We walked in to find hipsters everywhere, several empty tables, and kitschy decor. “Authentic Portland,” said our host. We were seated immediately and offered a drink menu. “We’d like drinks, but we’re really hungry so may we please see a food menu as well?” asked the beau. “Authentic Portland, they’ll take forever to make our drinks and they’ll bring the food menu out twenty minutes later,” our host advised.

 

She was spot on. They brought us our very small, kitschy drinks and, many minutes later, the menus. “Authentic Portland, you’re welcome,” our host said. Another thirty minutes or so later our cheese plate and soups arrived. The soups weren’t good but the cheese plate was OK. Eventually the entrees were served and, sadly, they were bad – the bread was ‘blackened,’ and the meats were tough. Our server, however, never returned to learn of our dismay. About an hour later, after we decided we might need to go out to eat after this misadventure, an employee came to clear the table and asked, “You still enjoying that?” “We never enjoyed any of it,” the beau plainly stated. “Shit food and shit service. Authentic Portland,” our host proudly announced.

While staying with Live Longer’s friend in Portland we had the pleasure of meeting her beau – I’m not sure he would say the same.

 

Being in the company of three women, he definitely got a an edumencation (that’s a portmanteau – the blending of two words. Is it ironic that it happened in Port-land? I doubt it).

 

Of most interest this weekend was perimenopause and menopause – the two are distinctly differently but both should cause men and women to pause for a second. Perimenopause – also a portmanteau – is the time around menopause. Menopause means one is done baking buns in the oven or, if one never baked buns, one is done bleeding like a rare slab of meat. Although I told the TSA agent that I was perimenopausal and Live Longer was menopausal, I was only half right. Live Longer, if she was a pastry, would be a tart and her friend, most likely a strudel. I, on the other hand, according to them, am a, “Croissant – a crusty croissant.” “I’m not offended. I like croissants,” I told them and added, “For the record, sometimes this crusty croissant is stuffed with ‘chocolate,’ so I guess that makes it a pain au chocolat. And who doesn’t like that? Huh? Huh?” “I think you’re traveling on a dry boat to ‘gina,” Live Longer quipped.

 

It was around this time that I had a hot flash, so I grabbed my hot flash fan out of my purse, flipped it open, started fanning, and finished my hot flash toddy.

 

Live Longer’s friend’s beau had learned more about women in the last 24 hours than he had his entire younger than me life. An edumencation is important. In fact, even at my age, I might consider getting a ‘PhD’ – wink, wink, nod, nod, hot flash.

Day two in Portland was like many other day twos of trips my friends and I take – we spend a good portion of the time reminiscing about the day before. Much of this reminiscing involves reviewing social media updates/shares and our cameras  in an attempt to ‘Hansel and Gretel’ our way back ‘home.’ Much like Hansel and Gretel, a lot of our ‘crumbs’ are missing.

 

This was definitely the case for Live Longer and I. Fortunately, only our memories were impaired and not our bellies/livers. As it turned out, we had a pretty good first day – loads of beverages, snacks, shopping, walking,  a little bit of dancing, more beverages, fried chicken and pork, and more walking. All of this was sprinkled with a little bit of Oregon rain and a whole lot of debauchery.

 

Like any good folklore, our adventures are fraught with non-conformity, attempts to escape responsibility and consequences, ‘poison,’ and, upon occasion, end up being a cautionary tale involving one or more devilish characters. In addition, we often wake up on/in an unfamiliar sleeping apparatus.

 

We may not live happily ever after, but we will definitely live and laugh heartily, often times donning little red shoes and dancing until we’re dead….tired.

I don’t don silk or fancy attire when flying, but I do try to avoid looking like I just rolled out of bed. Recently, on a trip to Portland with Live Longer, I wore black pants, black boots, and a shirt with a sequined tiger on the chest.

 

I emptied all of my belongings into the plastic bins and attempted to make my way through TSA. Unfortunately, the tiger set off a few bells and whistles resulting in the need for a ‘female assist.’ “I’m just going to run my hand under and between your breasts,” she told me. Live Longer watched, giggling, and asked, “Can I borrow your shirt on the flight home?”

 

Once I was safely felt up, we made our way to the Sky Club for a beverage. “I can see why people are wanting Delta to raise their standards. Look at all of the kids in here. They should just ban kids,” Live Longer observed. We were soon joined by our Portland host who agreed with Live Longer’s observation and wondered if having children in the Sky Club violated state liquor laws. “Pretty sure international laws trump state laws at airports. Kind of like crimes on the high seas,” I replied. Although they doubted my theory, they found it entertaining.

 

“Speaking of high seas,” I said, “Did you hear they have amnesty boxes at the Colorado Springs Airport where pot smoking travelers can leave their weed if they ‘accidentally’ brought it with them?” I asked. “No way,” Live Longer replied, “Totally true,” I said and added, “In fact, they’re thinking of changing TSA’s name to THCSA.” That part isn’t true, but it might be a name change worth considering.

This year for Valentine’s Day I did what many single females and couples who lack a romantic flair did – went to the furniture store. Fortunately, for me, I got paid to be there. The others were there on their own time and were most likely spending money instead of making it.

 

As shoppers entered the store I greeted them and asked, “Are you in the market for a love seat tonight?” Most were not. In attempt to make the time pass faster I found an hourglass for sale, turned it upside down and, approximately 30 minutes later, learned it was only a half-hourglass.

 

Just as I figured this out a male employee from the warehouse walked up and started asking me questions about my length of employment, relationship status, and why I was working on Single Awareness Day. He then told me his story (divorced, one kid, living with his parents and hates it) and, prior to exchanging names, he said, “I’ve just got to do this. Do you want to go out on a date tonight?” “Oh, no, thank you though,” I replied and then realized that might have sounded rude. “I don’t go out with coworkers,” I clarified. “Well, you don’t really work here and I usually work days,” he tried ton convince me. “Yeah, no,” I replied.

Feeling shot down, he started to walk away. “Excuse me, what is your name?” I asked. He returned, introduced himself and walked away. Although I had no interest in dating him, I figured I best know the name of the coworker who tried to  convince me to partake in a little last mine VD (valentine’s date).

My apologies for not blogging for the last few days. I decided to have a day of silence for each year I’m ahead of schedule for experiencing menopause. If I’ve done my math right, since the average age is 51, I’m about  nine years ahead of schedule. Thus, I’ve had nine days of anxious, irritable, sleepless, hot, cold, and sweaty silence – or, as some may say, nine days of the silent treatment. Not wanting to get bogged down with negatives – like the fact that I’m at greater risk for osteoporosis, cataracts, colon and ovarian cancer, gum disease and tooth loss – I’ll focus on the two positives – I don’t have a period and I’m not pregnant.

 

When my doctor and I discussed options for improving my outcomes and reducing my risks I informed her I would prefer to try a homeopathic approach. “You will need to get at least 1500 mg of calcium a day. How much milk, cheese and yogurt do you consume daily?” “I have cream in my coffee,”I replied. “Not enough,” she advised. “I try to eat yogurt every morning and I love cheese with my wine,” I told her. “Increase your consumption,” she advised. “More wine and cheese, I can totally do that!” I replied and asked, “What about that topical cream you and I discussed previously?” “You’ve got a couple more years before you need to worry about that,” she said and reminded me, “1500 mg of calcium a day. You  also need to do some form of exercise for your bones – running, weights, etc. Enjoy your weekend.”

 

After our conversation, I ate my yogurt, ran to the store (that’s the kind of running she meant, right?) to purchase a half gallon of chocolate milk and, on my way home, grabbed two frozen yogurts for dinner.

 

 

Recently I’ve noticed I’m experiencing a little hair loss. “I totally have male patterned baldness,” I told my elite alumni. “No you don’t,” On My Terms said. “Not on my head,” I said, “Downstairs. I’m rocking a combover tonight.”

 

Scared, who was in the middle of a Kegel marathon thanks to what a waxer once told her, couldn’t believe what I said to be true. If only she had been at the meaterie when I shared the same news with Mia Mamma and my female siblings. “It’s true,” Mia Mamma confirmed, “The older you get, the less you have.”

 

It is true. The more you shave, wax, laser and age the less hair you have and, as a result, you might find your nether regions looking a lot like Donald Trump’s crown – a good wind gust could quickly ‘blow your cover.’

 

So, if you find yourself in this situation, might I recommend really. really good pants.

Last year I received a holiday letter from neighbors and learned a new term, ‘hospitalist.’ A few weeks later I heard the term ‘mediaist’ and thought to myself, “I’ve got a new title!”

 

In my new title as mediaist, I have come up with a few more titles I may consider in the future:

 

Travelist

Stoopist

Hotelist

Winist

Dinist

Coffeeist

Couchist

Barist

Shopist

Elitist

 

Oh, wait, I’ve not only already considered these things, I’ve actually done them. With this much work behind me I’ll soon be a retirist.

 

 

 

 

 

I think it is fair to say my relations with my family are pretty normal considering the circumstances which, as I’m learning from oxygen and Lifetime, aren’t so rare. Unfortunately, this bit of knowledge does not make the obligatory gatherings any easier.

 

Recently, we gathered to celebrate Mia Mamma’s birthday at a barbecue joint and, as we contemplated meat platters, Beaner and I also discussed ordering wine. When we learned our oldest sister was also interested in a glass we decided to order a bottle. “A bottle? You’re both driving,” Mia Mamma – an uninformed, non-imbiber – said. “I just took an Ativan, so I’ll be fine,” my oldest sister replied.

 

The server approached to take our order and we asked about platter size. She convinced us that the medium sized platter was ‘huge,’ so we ordered it and a salad to share. Contestant #56, my middle sister who maintains a contestant status body, opted to order her own salad. The small ‘medium’ platter arrived with a small salad and two small potato sides. “This isn’t the first time someone has told me their meat platter was huge,” I quipped. “Size does matter,” Beaner said and we ordered a few more sides to share.

 

As the night went on, so did the jokes about meat and  Mia Mamma made a confession, “I watched Deep Throat years ago.” “Does dad know?” I asked. “No. I shouldn’t have told you guys,” she replied. We were able to guess with whom (neighbor ladies) she watched it and informed her we were well aware of her one Playgirl magazine (Christmas issue); which we figure she got from one of those naughty neighbor ladies. Within seconds Mia Mamma began housekeeping  – quickly sweeping her confessions under the rug.

 

When the bill arrived Mia Mamma was concerned we might make Contestant #56 pay for the wine, “She shouldn’t have to pay for it – she didn’t drink it.” “True, but we only bought it because we had to spend time with her,” I said. Even though I knew I was joking, I also knew I better be clear about that with them, “Just kidding. We’re not going to make her pay for the wine, but we’re also not paying for her salad.”

 

In the end, Beaner and I ended up paying for the bulk of the bill in an attempt to make others comfortable. Sometimes, however, even when eating comfort food, people remain quite uncomfortable.

 

Genetics play a huge role in the many positive and negative experiences we will have throughout our lifetime. For example, some people may ‘age better’ than others in the sense that that once they hit a certain age they look at least ten years younger than others in that age range. A couple of British researchers coined this the ‘Peter Pan’ gene. These people appear to have an all access pass to Neverland. On the other hand, those of us without that gene end up with a one-way ticket to NeverGonnaLookThatYoungAgainland.

 

Live Longer is of Asian descent thus, as her name implies, she will probably LiveLonger than all of us. If she had a middle name it would probably be AgeBetter. That said, she still thinks she is aging and wrinkling like the rest of us so when I told her the story about my Benjamin Button vagina a look of excitement quickly came across her beautiful face, “Oh, you have to get the estrogen cream!” “What estrogen cream?” I asked. “It is prescription only for menopausal vaginas. It tightens up the skin and is really good for your face,” she replied.

 

I discussed this concept with Scared who informed me, “That’s true. At least the part about putting it on the vagina. I rub it on a couple of my patients’ vaginas.” “Next time you see them, before you rub a little on them, rub a little on your face and let me know how it goes,” I advised.

 

The next day she sent me a text, “It looks like it’s not recommended until post menopause because your body should be making enough estrogen before then.” Based on my gyno’s comments and the fact that the age one experiences menopause is 85% genetic, I figure I’m in that rare perimenopausal category anxiously waiting for the day to get a prescription for estrogen cream so my vagina can look close to the same age as my face and, as my face ages, I can rub the cream on it so it will look even younger than my vagina.

 

Regardless of when I get the highly coveted cootch cream, I plan to exercise caution when using it. Not just for my safety, but for the safety of my male sex partner. My research tells me they can develop enlarged breasts if they have sex with someone who has recently applied the cream. I would assume the same is true for women who have sex with someone who has recently applied the cream. If that’s true, the days of fake breasts may be behind us….and in front of us depending on how much cream is applied.