Don’t Touch My Junk

“Don’t touch my junk” is now the frequent flyer’s mantra what with the TSA feeling everybody up before they get on a plane. I think the problem could be solved if doctors were the ones doing the groping. For example if I could get a mammogram and PAP smear before I got on a flight so much the better. I’m just not good at scheduling those things or following through on the appointments.

Also doctors could say, “I’m a professional” to put people at ease. It’s different if some random dude is touching a guy's junk than if a doctor does it and says, “Ok now cough for me.”

What a brilliant way to simultaneously improve our health care system and the safety of air traffic!

I’m surprised “Don’t touch my junk,” hasn’t already been taken by the show, Hoarders, but I guess nobody had the energy to come up with it after all the time it takes to fill your house full of junk. When people come to my house they’re like “Gosh, you want me to help you clean up some of this?” And I’m all like, “Don’t touch my junk or I’m calling the cops.”

Here’s a picture of my junk

And here’s a close-up on my junk – don’t touch it.

Ho-Ho-Hormones

I decided to give today’s blog title a little holiday flavor. You’re welcome.

In my never-ending quest to keep all four of my readers informed, I am happy to report that hormone therapy may or may not cut your risk of dementia. Way to commit LA Times!

http://www.latimes.com/health/boostershots/la-heb-hormone-therapy-20101118,0,2927432.story?track=rss

I will go out on a limb and say that NOT taking hormones may also increase your risk of dementia since I placed my paperback in the refrigerator the other morning after breakfast.

Cheers to not really knowing what your future may bring yet still being willing to embrace it.

The Platinum Rule

I’m telling you, the little things add up. Squeeze them all together, roll them, squish them, sit on them like an overstuffed suitcase while you try to zip the edges closed. Just when you think you got it, you stand up, tilt the suitcase upright and it explodes throwing your well-organized life all over the place like a college freshman puking after a rush party.

That’s the way it is with menopause. I mean I don’t have any experience in it, but occasionally I feel like all the little irritants from my life have been rolled, squished, pressed down until that fateful day when the hormones have had enough and some unknowing person says something rude. For example, I was walking my dogs when the 8-pound Chihuahua took a peanut size poop along the road and I had run out of bags. A woman driving by screams out her car window, “You need to pick that up.” And I yelled back, “You need to kiss my ass, bitch.” My rule is not quite as good as the golden one, but I say “Never f**k with a woman going through menopause.” We’ll call that the platinum rule.

Menopausal Musing #137

In one of my many fruitless forays into real estate commitment, I took my mother with me to look at a townhouse that was for sale. The place looked okay until we got into the bathroom, which was painted deep purple.

My mom peers in the bathtub and says, “Oh look, they have a cat!”

I looked into the tub and said, “I don’t think that’s cat hair.”

“Oh … ewww.”

To paraphrase a line from Will & Grace, “There was so much hair in the bathtub I thought it was going to ask if I wanted a falafel.”

I didn’t look at buying any more places for several years after that.

Random Thought

Skorts are the fashion equivalent of a mullet hairstyle. 

Business in the front and party in the back.