Hip to be Square

Aging sucks, but as I’m frequently reminded it beats the hell out of the alternative. This past October I celebrated my 60th birthday. Six decades on this earth have taken a toll on my body. I’m no longer the svelte, lithesome broad I once was. And everything hurts.

My ankles hurt, my thighs hurt, and my hips seem to be stuck in neutral. I’m okay as long as I move forward, just don’t ask me to pivot or cha cha. Damn, I miss cha cha-ing. 

A Facebook pop up advertisement (amazing how they pick up on my personal needs) prompted me to check on exercises designed to ease those frozen hips. Apparently, if I could stretch my hip flexors, I might achieve full range of motion. I could once again cha cha.

I turned to Google, and this stretch was the first thing to appear under “hip flexor stretches.”


Honestly. I can’t cha cha and they expect me to do this? I tried. Lord knows I tried. Studly Doright walked in during my attempt and laughed so hard I would have slapped him if I could’ve gotten up off the floor.

I’ll be in the whirlpool tub if anyone needs me.

https://g.co/kgs/oXQ3m7
Peace, people.

Snapshot #127

I took this one at the Tallahassee Museum last week. That’s Studly Doright (Poppa) experiencing the Tree to Tree adventure. Let’s call this one, “Holy Crap! What Has He Gotten Himself Into?”

Snapshot #124

Studly Doright freaked out a little when he saw this critter near the beach on St. George Island. I call this one, “Dreaded Bungee Cord Viper.”

Snapshot #121

Studly Doright took the day off work today so he could get in a practice round of golf before a big multi-club championship this weekend. I accompanied him around town this morning and learned something important. That’s why I call this one, “So That’s How He Shaves Strokes Off His Game!”

Snapshot #114

This 1955 Nomad was lovingly built by Studly’s friend, Pete. I call it “There’s  Nomad like Pete’s.” 

Vagina Wars: A New Hope

I’ve debated endlessly with myself about publishing this post. The truth is, this is an adult situation, and I’m going to discuss some delicate matters, so you’ve been warned. In the end, I thought that other women out there might be dealing with the same issues I’ve had and not to share would be wrong.

First some history. In 2007 I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. I had a lumpectomy and six weeks of radiation therapy. The lump was estrogen receptive, so I was placed on the drug tamoxifen, an estrogen inhibitor, for a period of five years. Everything went beautifully, but I continued menstruating heavily and in 2011 my doctors decided I needed to have an oophorectomy (hysterectomy plus removal of my ovaries, Fallopian tubes, the whole shebang.)

Shortly after that I realized that sexual intercourse, an act of which I was tremendously fond, had become unbearably painful. It was like one day a switch was shut off and my vagina ceased to be my friend. 

Oh, we coaxed it, and lubricated it. I sent off to Europe for a product guaranteed to make my vagina a welcoming place again. My radiologist, Dr. Sapiente, sent me home with a set of dilators in Easter egg pastels. We tried lidocaine swabs. Nothing helped.

My gynecologist at the time prescribed the topical steroid, Premarin, and for one glorious month I was on speaking terms with my vagina. Unfortunately, when my oncologist found out I was taking it she put her foot down and took it away from me, and we were back to being frenemies.

Poor Studly was, and continues to be, so patient, and I must say I’ve been a trooper, too. Wine helps, lots and lots of wine. The act still hurts, but I don’t care as much. 

When we moved to Florida I told our new family doctor about my problem and asked if there were any new treatments for women like me. He responded, “Is it still that important to you?” I wanted to slap him, but instead I began the search for another doctor. 

My new doctor is female, and she referred me to a gynecologist who uses a relatively new procedure using lasers to stimulate the vagina to create its own collagen. I saw the specialist on Wednesday, and for the first time in six years I feel hopeful that we can be friends again. 

The procedure isn’t covered by health insurance, and the initial package of three treatments can vary in price from $1,500 to $3,000 depending on the part of the country in which one resides. Annual follow up treatments run about $500. 

At my doctor’s office the procedure is known as the Mona Lisa Touch (they have a website: http://www.monalisatouch.com/), but I understand there are several other companies in the market with different monikers.

My first treatment is scheduled in early March. If I haven’t put everyone off I’ll provide updates, not to be confused with play by play. That would just be wrong. Send good thoughts. I will appreciate them.

Oh, my new gynecologist talked to me extensively about new research regarding Premarin and he’s started me on a new prescription. Things really are looking up down there.

Peace and friendship, people.

I’m Dreaming of a Baby Elephant 

My dreams are technicolor wonders. Many mornings I wake up and feel like I’ve just attended the world premiere of a major Hollywood movie. Of course upon further reflection the dreams come closer to being low budget indie productions, but still quite entertaining. 

Take last night’s offering, for example. For some reason, Studly and I were living in an apartment complex. He sent me on an errand, and I drove around the inner courtyard of the complex trying to find an exit to the street. As I turned a corner I came face to face with the cutest baby elephant you’ve ever seen. 

I couldn’t wait to tell Studly, so I hurried back to our apartment where I discovered him dressed in a beige plaid suit. Beige. Plaid. I tried to tell him about the baby elephant, but he told me to hurry up and get dressed because he was going to be in a friend’s wedding. 

Most of my clothes were at our old house, but I quickly found a floral tutu type skirt in my closet and paired it with heels and a black t-shirt. As we set off in our car, the road became narrower, turning into a single lane, then a sidewalk, and finally something no wider than a curb. Our car morphed into a motorcycle and then a bicycle built for two as the road grew smaller.

Just before I woke up I looked back and the baby elephant was attempting to catch up to us. My arms ached with the need to cradle this little one. 

Interestingly enough, I’ve had the narrowing road appear in my dreams often. In my amateurish attempts to analyze my dreams I’ve come to believe that my subconscious is reminding me that my options are narrowing as I grow older. But the baby elephant indicates that there are still sweet surprises awaiting. Where are you little elephant?

Peace, people!

The New Year Approacheth

As the final few hours of 2016 tick away, Studly is yawning and I’m in my p.j.s.

Invitations? We had a few, but decided on spending a quiet night for two.

We’ll watch college football until 10 or so, then off to our bed we’ll gladly go.

At midnight I’ll give Studly a kiss; he’ll mumble I love you and return to his bliss.

The ball will drop in New York City, while my man and I snore along with our kitties.

Happy New Year to all, may this one be great, however you choose to celebrate.

Peace, people.

Barbie and the Cave Bear

In my youth I was into playing with fashion dolls Barbie and Ken, along with their friends Midge and Alan. My collection of the dolls never extended past that core group. Alan was lost early on and all of Ken’s fuzzy hair rubbed off, so he was essentially bald for as long as I can remember. Maybe that’s why I find Studly Doright so darned attractive. 
Unlike most of my friends I didn’t go in for dressing my Barbie dolls in ball gowns and high heels. The latter never stayed on for more than ten seconds anyway. No, my dolls were meant for greater things than parading about in too tight skirts and sweaters that showed off their alarmingly enhanced charms. 

I had two favorite scenarios: 

1) “Space Barbie” in which Barbie and Midge are the first women in space. They travel to a distant planet where they rescue Ken who had been marooned for months. Together, the trio fight off strange life forms and build the foundation of a dynamic colony. There might have been some mild romance. I wasn’t very old, and had no idea where babies came from. 

2) “Cave Barbie” in which Barbie and Midge are foraging for food in prehistoric times and wander too far from their home village. They take shelter from a violent storm in a cave and discover Ken who’d been exiled by another tribe. Together, the trio fight off strange beasts and build the foundation for a dynamic new clan. 

Anyone see a pattern forming? There were other scenarios–“Pirate Barbie,” “Ranch Barbie,” and “Archeological Barbie,” to name a few. In each scenario Barbie and Midge had to pull Ken’s butt out of a life threatening predicament. Keep in mind, this was well before the popularity of career minded Barbie. I was either way ahead of my time or suffering from delusions of grandeur. 

Two of my granddaughters play with Barbies. I tried to tell the oldest one about my dolls’ adventures. She wasn’t impressed.

“Did you have a Barbie house?” she asked.

“Well, no, I piled up blankets and created little caves in the folds. That’s where they lived.”

“Did your dolls have lots of pretty dresses?”

“No, but my mom found some fake fur scraps and I draped them around my Barbies to keep them warm in their caves. Cool, huh?”

“I think I like my way better,” she said. 

“Fine. Be that way,” I retorted. “But just know that Ken’s blood is on your hands.”

I’m not allowed to babysit anymore.

Peace, people.