I know all of you reading this have been worrying yourselves to death over my previously mentioned trips to the urologist. I'm here to reassure you that Misty (yes, that's her real name for anyone new to the party) and I are still getting together on a semi-regular basis. But after spending enough money to pay for a week in Tuscany (my barometer for all expenditures) on ultrasounds, urine tests, office visits and one really uncomfortable "stretching" episode, Misty was no closer to remedying the problem than the day I stepped into her office.
That's when I decided to take matters into my own hands. No, I didn't enroll in med school - I'm trying to re-invent myself but I'm not crazy - I just started reading everything I could get my hands on about my miraculous body and why it might be turning on me. In my search, I discovered a website where other women were wrestling with the very same issue. They were all spending the majority of their day going to the bathroom, thinking about going to the bathroom, or trying to distract themselves from thinking about going to the bathroom. Their stories were mirror images of mine as were their experiences with their doctors - not a whole lot of help for the money spent.
As I continued to read the comments, I stumbled upon one woman's solution. She said she had begged her (male) doctor to let her try a topical estrogen cream, Estrace, because she had heard that it might be the answer to her problem. Having never taken any kind of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) to get me through menopause, I never thought about missing hormones being a part of my current discomfort but the more I read up on the idea, the more it made sense.
So, naturally, I trudged over to my (male) urologist's office (by this time Misty had handed me over to her boss, a grizzled old guy who was as serious as Misty was chipper) to ask if I could try this miracle cream. When he reluctantly provided me with a prescription, I headed straight to Costco where I found out that trying this possible remedy would result in a $145 hit to my bank account. As much as I wanted to try it, I couldn't pull the trigger.
I went home, searched the internet for prices on Estrace and found a website that offered it for $42 for two tubes. Skeptical but willing to risk fifty bucks, I placed my order. That's when I found out that it would take two to four weeks to receive it because it was coming from. . .you guessed it, India.
Long story short (yeah, I know, too late), it's made a difference. I've only been using it for two weeks and, while not where I used to be when I was twenty, I no longer feel destined for the Depends' aisle.
I do, however, see more boxes from Bombay and a whole lot less interaction with my friend Misty in my future.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
One Man's Generosity
One of the most amazing things about life is how often it surprises you. Just when you think you've seen it all, something happens that reminds you that you haven't.
Tonight my husband and I went out for pizza to a new coal oven pizza place whose bakers throw the dough in the air, slide it into an inferno and produce a paper thin pie in a matter of minutes. My husband had recently completed a website commercial for the owner and was anxious to deliver the finished product. I, of course, was more than happy to go along for the ride. . .as long as there was one of those delicious-looking pizzas from the video at the end of it.
The owner greeted us and told us how much he liked the video and we sat down to sample the goods. Within minutes, a smiling young man was standing at our table. Assuming he was our waiter, I listened as he said his name was Tony and then went on to say that tonight he was going to buy our dinner. My husband and I immediately jumped to the conclusion that the owner had sent over one of his staff to say the meal was on the house in appreciation for the completed commercial but we soon realized that this was not the case. This was a complete stranger offering to treat us to the dinner of our choice. When pressed further, he stated that he'd struggled for the last few years but now was doing so well that he not only was buying our dinner but popping for all the other tables in the restaurant as well.
We tried to refuse but he wouldn't take no for an answer. As we watched him make his way around to the other beneficiaries of his giving spirit, we couldn't help wondering how his random act of kindness would inspire everyone it touched. Would the family at the table near the window invite a homeless family for dinner? Would the couple by the door offer to pay for the senior citizen's groceries waiting behind them in the checkout line? Would the waitress donate a percentage of her tips to her favorite charity?
Who knows? I just know I'm going to do something. I don't know what, where or when but if I were you, I'd want to start hanging out with me.
Tonight my husband and I went out for pizza to a new coal oven pizza place whose bakers throw the dough in the air, slide it into an inferno and produce a paper thin pie in a matter of minutes. My husband had recently completed a website commercial for the owner and was anxious to deliver the finished product. I, of course, was more than happy to go along for the ride. . .as long as there was one of those delicious-looking pizzas from the video at the end of it.
The owner greeted us and told us how much he liked the video and we sat down to sample the goods. Within minutes, a smiling young man was standing at our table. Assuming he was our waiter, I listened as he said his name was Tony and then went on to say that tonight he was going to buy our dinner. My husband and I immediately jumped to the conclusion that the owner had sent over one of his staff to say the meal was on the house in appreciation for the completed commercial but we soon realized that this was not the case. This was a complete stranger offering to treat us to the dinner of our choice. When pressed further, he stated that he'd struggled for the last few years but now was doing so well that he not only was buying our dinner but popping for all the other tables in the restaurant as well.
We tried to refuse but he wouldn't take no for an answer. As we watched him make his way around to the other beneficiaries of his giving spirit, we couldn't help wondering how his random act of kindness would inspire everyone it touched. Would the family at the table near the window invite a homeless family for dinner? Would the couple by the door offer to pay for the senior citizen's groceries waiting behind them in the checkout line? Would the waitress donate a percentage of her tips to her favorite charity?
Who knows? I just know I'm going to do something. I don't know what, where or when but if I were you, I'd want to start hanging out with me.
Monday, April 22, 2013
63 and Counting
I know this is supposed to be a blog about stepping gracefully away from full-time motherhood but my wandering mind doesn't always stick to the rules. And since I'm the one sitting down to type the damn thing, I think I have to write about the spirits that move me and tonight I'm thinking a lot about the institution that got me into this whole motherhood thing in the first place. That's right. . .tonight I'm thinking about marriage and what a tough, impossible, challenging, rewarding, wonderful little sucker it can be.
April 22nd, 1950. A pound of hamburger cost thirty cents. A gallon of gas was a little more than half that and a new car to put it in could be had for $1500. It was also the time when a couple of crazy kids decided to get married. They had known each other for all of six months. He had turned twenty in February and she left her teenage years behind the day before her wedding. Their reception was catered by friends and they honeymooned in a leaky, cold cottage in Wisconsin.
April 22nd, 2013. A pound of hamburger costs $3.69 on sale (unless you're into that organic, non-antiobiotic variety which might have you reconsidering the merits of vegetarianism). A gallon of gas is now hovering around the $4 mark. And a new car. . .well, let's just say that when I helped my son buy his used car recently, the salesman told me we wouldn't be able to get anything for less than $10,000.
And what about those two crazy kids. . .the ones I left back in 1950? They made it through it all - sixteen Presidential elections, a stint in the military, a couple of kids, several job-related moves, women's liberation, and more than a few economic downturns. They argue about what happened when and who said what to whom. They finish each others' sentences and they share dinners at Olive Garden. They show up at as many family events as their tired bodies allow and still manage to get in a round of golf or a few hours at the casino. They also bring more joy, wisdom, compassion and laughter into the lives of anyone lucky enough to hang with them than any two people on the planet . I should know. Those two crazy kids are my parents.And today is their anniversary.
63. It looks good on them.
April 22nd, 1950. A pound of hamburger cost thirty cents. A gallon of gas was a little more than half that and a new car to put it in could be had for $1500. It was also the time when a couple of crazy kids decided to get married. They had known each other for all of six months. He had turned twenty in February and she left her teenage years behind the day before her wedding. Their reception was catered by friends and they honeymooned in a leaky, cold cottage in Wisconsin.
April 22nd, 2013. A pound of hamburger costs $3.69 on sale (unless you're into that organic, non-antiobiotic variety which might have you reconsidering the merits of vegetarianism). A gallon of gas is now hovering around the $4 mark. And a new car. . .well, let's just say that when I helped my son buy his used car recently, the salesman told me we wouldn't be able to get anything for less than $10,000.
And what about those two crazy kids. . .the ones I left back in 1950? They made it through it all - sixteen Presidential elections, a stint in the military, a couple of kids, several job-related moves, women's liberation, and more than a few economic downturns. They argue about what happened when and who said what to whom. They finish each others' sentences and they share dinners at Olive Garden. They show up at as many family events as their tired bodies allow and still manage to get in a round of golf or a few hours at the casino. They also bring more joy, wisdom, compassion and laughter into the lives of anyone lucky enough to hang with them than any two people on the planet . I should know. Those two crazy kids are my parents.And today is their anniversary.
63. It looks good on them.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Change. . .Will Do You Good
If you haven't guessed by now, I'm less than thrilled by disruptions in my status quo. Translation: not too crazy about change. From what I eat for breakfast (Frosted Mini-Wheats with fruit is the standard these days) to the route I take to work I tend to stick with patterns of behavior longer than Neil Diamond has been singing Sweet Caroline. This personality trait works well if your husband is answering questions about you on a game show ("I'll take 'What she wears to bed' for $200, Alex") but is decidedly troublesome when one is trying to re-invent oneself.
That's why I'm grateful that God takes a hand in situations that get away from me. Whenever I don't have the courage/intelligence/decisiveness to pull the trigger and move on from something that isn't working in my life, He seems to step in and make the decision for me. Take last week. I had been struggling for awhile with the writing assignments I'd been getting from the online educational website that had hired me to write video scripts. The job was never a perfect marriage of my skills to their needs but I spent a lot of time, often way too much time, trying to adapt my style of writing to theirs. For awhile, I seemed to pull it off. They were happy with what I was doing and I was thrilled to be paid for my words; it was especially gratifying to actually see my writing turned into two-minute videos on the site. But lately, things weren't working. No matter what I tried to write, I couldn't find the right tone, the right pop-cultural references, the right humor/slang/puns to satisfy my editors. I wasn't enjoying the process anymore; no, scratch that, I was dreading the idea of sitting down and coming up with material that was no longer knocking their socks off and wasn't even remotely satisfying to me as a writer.
That's where God stepped in. While I couldn't (or wouldn't) tell my boss (who also happens to be my nephew who recommended me for the freelance opportunity) that I wanted to move on, I continued to work for hours trying to please someone other than myself. I didn't want to disappoint my nephew or have it reflect badly on him that his crazy aunt had run out of gas. I didn't want to disappoint the website who had hired me and given me my first writing income in years. And, most importantly, I didn't want to admit that I couldn't bend and twist my writing ability to fit into the website's very specific mold. So, when my nephew had to reluctantly inform me that the site wasn't "digging" my latest efforts, I was initially crushed. How dare they break up with me before I had the nerve to break up with them? But, you know what? That feeling was quickly replaced with waves of relief - real, honest-to-goodness relief.
I wouldn't have to come up with a silly pun or conjure up some potty humor that would make a twelve year-old chuckle. I wouldn't have to wrack my fifty-something brain to suggest a relevant pop-cultural video image that wouldn't leave a high-schooler scratching his head (can I help it if they don't know Paul McCartney isn't just some old guy singing at the Super Bowl?). And, more importantly, I wouldn't have any excuse not to get back to the writing that means something to me.
So, it turns out that that amazingly wise woman Sheryl Crow was right. If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad AND a change will do you good.
Now why can't I write shit like that?
That's why I'm grateful that God takes a hand in situations that get away from me. Whenever I don't have the courage/intelligence/decisiveness to pull the trigger and move on from something that isn't working in my life, He seems to step in and make the decision for me. Take last week. I had been struggling for awhile with the writing assignments I'd been getting from the online educational website that had hired me to write video scripts. The job was never a perfect marriage of my skills to their needs but I spent a lot of time, often way too much time, trying to adapt my style of writing to theirs. For awhile, I seemed to pull it off. They were happy with what I was doing and I was thrilled to be paid for my words; it was especially gratifying to actually see my writing turned into two-minute videos on the site. But lately, things weren't working. No matter what I tried to write, I couldn't find the right tone, the right pop-cultural references, the right humor/slang/puns to satisfy my editors. I wasn't enjoying the process anymore; no, scratch that, I was dreading the idea of sitting down and coming up with material that was no longer knocking their socks off and wasn't even remotely satisfying to me as a writer.
That's where God stepped in. While I couldn't (or wouldn't) tell my boss (who also happens to be my nephew who recommended me for the freelance opportunity) that I wanted to move on, I continued to work for hours trying to please someone other than myself. I didn't want to disappoint my nephew or have it reflect badly on him that his crazy aunt had run out of gas. I didn't want to disappoint the website who had hired me and given me my first writing income in years. And, most importantly, I didn't want to admit that I couldn't bend and twist my writing ability to fit into the website's very specific mold. So, when my nephew had to reluctantly inform me that the site wasn't "digging" my latest efforts, I was initially crushed. How dare they break up with me before I had the nerve to break up with them? But, you know what? That feeling was quickly replaced with waves of relief - real, honest-to-goodness relief.
I wouldn't have to come up with a silly pun or conjure up some potty humor that would make a twelve year-old chuckle. I wouldn't have to wrack my fifty-something brain to suggest a relevant pop-cultural video image that wouldn't leave a high-schooler scratching his head (can I help it if they don't know Paul McCartney isn't just some old guy singing at the Super Bowl?). And, more importantly, I wouldn't have any excuse not to get back to the writing that means something to me.
So, it turns out that that amazingly wise woman Sheryl Crow was right. If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad AND a change will do you good.
Now why can't I write shit like that?
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Big News
It's tough sometimes to react the way people want you to when they share big news. I'll bet no one who knew Nadiya Suileman (better known as the Octomom) was jumping up and down when she announced she was pregnant with her 7th - 14th children. Families who get the announcements that their son has joined the Marines or their daughter is moving to Tanzania with a guy she met at Buffalo Wild Wings know what I'm talking about. It's hard to be as excited as your kids want you to be when you have a few reservations about what they've decided to do.
I guess I'm feeling this way because our daughter just announced her engagement. He's a great guy and treats her like a queen. They met a church and he doesn't have one visible tattoo. Yeah, I know - what's the problem? I should shut up and start calling banquet halls, right? The truth is, I'm a little worried about how fast everything's moving. I know she's a big girl and I should just butt out but c'mon, we all know that that's not going to happen.
I'm trying my hardest to be as over-the-moon about all this as she is. I even bought her a Brides Magazine today, hoping to show her I'm not trying to rain all over her parade. Like every mother of the bride before me, I love my daughter to death and I want nothing more than her continued happiness as she heads off into the sunset with her Prince Charming.
Can I help it if I'd prefer that the ride wasn't jet-propelled?
I guess I'm feeling this way because our daughter just announced her engagement. He's a great guy and treats her like a queen. They met a church and he doesn't have one visible tattoo. Yeah, I know - what's the problem? I should shut up and start calling banquet halls, right? The truth is, I'm a little worried about how fast everything's moving. I know she's a big girl and I should just butt out but c'mon, we all know that that's not going to happen.
I'm trying my hardest to be as over-the-moon about all this as she is. I even bought her a Brides Magazine today, hoping to show her I'm not trying to rain all over her parade. Like every mother of the bride before me, I love my daughter to death and I want nothing more than her continued happiness as she heads off into the sunset with her Prince Charming.
Can I help it if I'd prefer that the ride wasn't jet-propelled?
Monday, April 1, 2013
Our Favorite House Guest
Last week was Spring Break and instead of joining the hordes heading off to some all-inclusive beach resort like we used to do when our kids were little, we stayed home and suffered through the last few days of winter in sweet home Chicago. But we weren't alone. We were the vacation destination of choice of my thirteen year-old nephew who loves nothing better than hanging out with his decade-older cousins.
For three days I watched as my son and daughter entertained my nephew with video games, ping pong tournaments and trips to fast food havens. We let him eat and drink everything that was off limits at his organically-minded household and let him stay up as long as he could keep his bleary eyes open.
It wasn't difficult. He's a great kid who's an absolute joy to have around - he's smart, funny and relatively polite (c'mon, he's thirteen - he can't be perfect all the time). Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate enough to do anything outside but I think he had a great time anyway. We all did.
But his visit made me realize something. I'm glad I'm not in my sister's shoes. Because I could never go through raising another kid. I don't have the patience, not to mention selflessness, required to sit through parent-teacher conferences (even ones celebrating another semester of straight As), help with homework, or attend band concerts and Saturday morning baseball games. I don't have the fortitude to watch another one go through first love, requited or otherwise. My sister, God love her, is only fourteen months younger than I am and I don't know how she does it.
One of my biggest regrets is not having had more children. In my thirties and forties I know I could have handled four or five.
I don't know why but it didn't work out that way. But, as usual, my sister has my back. She's generous enough to let me borrow one of hers.
For three days I watched as my son and daughter entertained my nephew with video games, ping pong tournaments and trips to fast food havens. We let him eat and drink everything that was off limits at his organically-minded household and let him stay up as long as he could keep his bleary eyes open.
It wasn't difficult. He's a great kid who's an absolute joy to have around - he's smart, funny and relatively polite (c'mon, he's thirteen - he can't be perfect all the time). Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate enough to do anything outside but I think he had a great time anyway. We all did.
But his visit made me realize something. I'm glad I'm not in my sister's shoes. Because I could never go through raising another kid. I don't have the patience, not to mention selflessness, required to sit through parent-teacher conferences (even ones celebrating another semester of straight As), help with homework, or attend band concerts and Saturday morning baseball games. I don't have the fortitude to watch another one go through first love, requited or otherwise. My sister, God love her, is only fourteen months younger than I am and I don't know how she does it.
One of my biggest regrets is not having had more children. In my thirties and forties I know I could have handled four or five.
I don't know why but it didn't work out that way. But, as usual, my sister has my back. She's generous enough to let me borrow one of hers.
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