And God said, "She shall have uncontrollable tear ducts and then I shall cut off her hormonal control."And it was so. It WAS NOT GOOD.

First off:

WARNING!

If you ARE NOT a Peri-menopausal Woman

or

If you have NEVER heard the word Peri-menopausal

or

If you are a male of ANY species

DO NOT read this post.

INSTEAD, click HERE for an appropriately MALE picture which should wipe out any possible memory of any unpleasant images the word Peri-menopausal has put into your brain.

There. Now that that's done.

I recently conversed with my GYN and it was decided that, perhaps, I should start tapering off on my hormone replacement patches. I have been on these patches for heading up on eight years, ever since one brisk November day when I walked into work so drenched in sweat that I had to change clothes. My GYN and weighed the pros and cons and determined the benefits out-weighed the risks.

One year ago, my sweet GYN suggested I try this weaning process. But she made the mistake of asking how things in my life were. Upon hearing about our oldest moving into his first grownup apartment and our youngest graduating college and moving home, We weighed the pros and cons. It was determined that 2013 was not the optimum time for decreasing my hormone stability.

2014 seemed to be much more conducive to a hormone vacation. Everyone in my little family unit is reasonably content. I have some fun plans throughout the year to look forward too and apparently I have 'amazingly firm' internal abdominal muscles. (As I have an extra twenty pounds camouflaging my external abs and this declaration was from my GYN doc, I will let you figure out how she came to this conclusion.)

So on Sunday, it was with NO very little trepidation, that I slapped on my half strength hormone patch. Sundays are such pleasant days. I spent the better part of this day on the deck, reading my stack of magazines. I told myself it is a good three months before they start playing those tear-jerking Hallmark and Folgers holiday commercials and the television gods haven't shown a clip of a newly shorn Anne Hathaway singing about the shambles that is her life in almost a year. It got a little dicey when the House Hunting couple had words over whether closer to city center was better than a large backyard, but all in all, Sunday was a good day.

And then the alarm clock went off to Monday.

My first thought: Bart seriously needs to step up his lottery ticket purchases.

This was followed by a entire fleet of thoughts flying around my head:

how cute the kids were on their first days of school

how sweet our first family dog was

how much I miss that sweet dog

which led to reminiscing about everyone I know who has passed away over the years

and how dangerous Bart's job once was

and what would I ever do without him...

By the time I got to work I was one dropped M&M away from a cry-fest.

But, I held it together.

Until I actually had to start working.

I should mention here that many of my patients receive extremely devastating news in the recovery room. And some receive extremely happy news. Either way, people start crying. I can usually maintain a quiet, supportive composure.

But not today. It went something like this:

Patient got good news.

Husband begins to cry with relief.

I hand him some tissues, offer a comforting hand on his shoulder.

I take the tissues away from him to blow MY nose, wipe my eyes and excuse myself to the bathroom.

At lunch I read a blog by one of my favorite writer/cooks.

It was about a wedding and how she began crying the minute the bride walked down the aisle.

I joined her in tears.

Sort of an emotional Band of Weeping Uteruses.

And so the day progressed.

I called Bart as I was walking to my car to give him a heads up that I was leaving work and was so relieved to hear his voice that I had to choke back a sob.

And for fun, I stepped on the bathroom scale. Because nothing says comfort like those enormous numbers which haven't budged in two months. (Unless you have been counting calories so long you sound like Rainman as you examine the cupboard for an evening snack.)

Now, it is 9:45pm.

As I sit here writing this post I have before me one half of a Figgy Piggy calzone, the last drops of Cabernet in the bottle which has been on the counter for a week and the last three hormone patches in the box.

Okay. It is an empty box.

I have weighed the pros and cons. 

Yes. Figgy Piggy. It is applewood bacon, figs and marscapone cheese wrapped in a delicious crust. Weird combo? No doubt. Delish? YES!  This delightful weirdness is from Sauce on the Side.

On a semi-related note: I have recently begun an association with two wonderful websites devoted to the journey that is Middle Age. Please take the time to check them out. They are only a click away! 

                                 Adventures of the Empty Nesters

                    (thanks for adding me to your contributors!)

                                       Midlife Boulevard

(and thank you for adding me to your on-line, facebook community!) 

I should also mention that NONE of the links or products or stores mentioned here are paid endorsements. But I will freely admit to liking them all.

An Olfactory Betrayal

I have a distressing confession to make.

My new favorite fragrance is Nirvana Black. It is full-bodied without being heavy. Spicy without being incense-y. With just a hint of sweetness, but not so much that you could be mistaken for a roll of Smarties.

It is manufactured by the Elizabeth and James brand.

Which is owned by Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.

I am fifty-three years old.

I am too old to purchase a perfume from the brand which brought us How the West Was Fun and New York Minute.

Plus, I have never been a sucker for celebrity endorsement.

The first thought which pops into my head when I see someone's name on a bottle of perfume is: Why would I want to smell like Elizabeth Taylor (too divorcee) , Christina Aguilera (too Idol-y), David Beckham (too sweaty) or Jennifer Aniston (too friend-y).

Except for Judy Garland.

Actually, back from the grave Judy Garland.

It was the Clinique campaign using vintage video of Judy in her black bodysuit and top hat singing "Come on Get Happy" that prompted me to run out do just that. The fragrance is exactly as advertised. I can't wear it without feeling happy.

And now this.

Nirvana-Black.

I feel all mysterious and sophisticated when I spritz my sample bottle* to my wrists. I want to sit in cafes with striped awnings dripping rain and drink french press coffee in my long flowy skirt and oversized bowler hat as I wait for a dark stranger with a luxuriously full head of hair to arrive and whisk me away on his motorcycle.

Not at all the image I get when I think of a fragrance by two tweeny-bopper icons.

Have Mercy!

(Okay, this is NOT the catchphrase from that spunky Michelle Tanner (aka – MaryKate and Ashley) because seriously. I did not watch Full House for a goofy looking baby. Like every other woman in America I watched it for Uncle Jesse aka John Stamos. And thankfully that fact has not gone unnoticed by the Greek Yogurt Society.

Thank you Oikos.)

*This is in no way endorsed, nor paid for Elizabeth and James. My sample bottle is just that – a teensy little spritz which the counter girl at Sephora** filled for me after I spent one too many Benjamins on a cover stick.

**This is also in no way endorsed by Sephora. But should the marvelous people at Sephora consider contacting me, I am down with whatever you have in mind.

Smoke? No, just me thinking again...

Just a small observation from a recently attended wedding:

A thong provides little protection when dancing to the song "SHOUT". *

Okay, sorry guys. I am not intentionally trying to alienate you. Yes, it is unfair to mention 'thong' right at the beginning of a post without it leading into a discussion of other flimsy undergarments or at least Kim Kardashian.** But, unless you men have ever worn a thong, you have no idea of the implications.

Especially if that thong is combined with those latex tubes known as shape-wear...think about it.

Also, just how often do you see men actually out there dancing to "SHOUT"? (I am talking about wedding reception dance floors here. Not beer soaked frat parties or our basement on DDR night.) Statistically the dance floor is made up of half the wedding party with the rest of the dancers being two thirds small children and toddlers and one third women. (and of those two thirds of small children and toddlers, a full three quarters of them are girls.)

So just where am I going with this?

Ladies, should you find yourself in this position – thong+SHOUT+/-shapewear – and suddenly realize the truth of the above observation, I suggest you follow these steps:

Grab the nearest toddler (most likely a girl)

Hug her closely and say in a moderately loud voice, "Oh, honey, its Okay. Lets go find your Mom."

Gracefully sweep her off the dance floor while moderately loudly announcing, "I think she had a little accident." 

Walk determinedly towards the bathroom, dropping the confused little girl in the tutu next to a hunk of wedding cake.

Disappear into the crowd.

No need to worry about the toddler. She will have forty-three years to get over the trauma before experiencing her own issues with dancing to "SHOUT" and wearing thongs.

*I feel well qualified to discuss the inherent danger of dancing to SHOUT as I am close personal friends with Ron Isley. Okay, actually I sat two tables over from Ron at a Blues review. And even though I didn't recognize him until he took the stage, it was clear he was someone extremely cool and famous.

**I have no idea if Kim Kardashian wears thongs or shape-wear or any combination of the two. I have my suspicions but since the poor girl just had a baby I am willing to cut her a break. Plus, she is well on her way to understanding exactly what the implications of the above observation truly are. 

Ps - Congratulations to my sweet friend Sarah and her new husband TJ. And just so you know, this is just an observation and in no way is an admission of damaging the carpet at your reception venue. My offer to dry clean the rug was just part of my wedding gift to you.

Public Service Announcement!!! If You Don't Read This Someone Could Die. (well, not really but it just sounds to awesome this way.)

Because we at the Coast of Illinois are all about safety and keeping your adult children out of therapy.

WARNING! If you are male this post may cause much distress and possibly place images in your head that you can not un-think.

Hoping to switch up my sleeping attire which consists mostly of large stretchy t-shirts, I bought a new pajama top. It was pinky-orange, supremely soft with a little twist in the front and a seam, suggesting a waist. It was not clingy but not so large that a family of five could camp in it for a weekend. Plus the print was hibiscus which matched my super comfy hibiscus lounge pants.

The first evening I wore the top I felt marvelous. The little knot detail/seam hugged my breastical area as the remaining fabric fell away in a flow-ey, not pregnant-looking manner. I got compliments! From my family! Over my choice of lounge wear!

I put the top on last night, hoping for a little positive reinforcement.

Ha!

It took no less than four Cirque de Soliel moves to get the breasticals stationed in their appropriate positions. And, the minute I reached for the bathroom door MyLeftBreast* went AWOL and attempted to escape MyRightBreast who was hogging all the fabric thus pulling the knot away from center and putting it more in the armpit area.

Several more moves ala Cirque and everyone was back in position. I found that by keeping my shoulders back, neck straight and chin up, everything stayed where God and Merona wanted it.

Until I bent over to turn the television on. MyRightBreast determined this as the window of opportunity and literally leaped from its tiny fabric ledge and out into the Great Room. Thankfully my family has been conditioned to interpret and ignore the various shrieks I emit throughout the day. As practiced in drill, they averted their eyes and pretended that the Harbor Freight Flyer was the singularly most interesting piece of paper they had ever seen thus allowing me time to shove Righty back in place.

Of course, this entire episode could have been avoided had I simply worn a bra under my pajama top. Everyone from Miss Galbrieth, my 7^th grade home-ec teacher, to Carrie Bradshaw has championed wearing bras 24/7. Clearly these women have never worked twelve hours, standing on their feet while wearing the Playtex Kevlar Pretty Woman Brassiere.

When I get home at night I just want to be comfortable. And not send my children to therapy.

Is that too much to ask?

*MyLeftBreast is in no way related to the Daniel Day Lewis movie My Left Foot.

Although it totally should be.

And Now a Fact From Mr. Science

Here's an interesting fact:

One side of the body feels pain more intensely than the other side.

Oh, wait. I have that wrong. Actually it is this:

Having someone jab a tiny needle with a syringe full of vein killing solution into a vein above your shin bone hurts like someone jabbing a tiny needle with a syringe full of vein killing solution into a vein above your shin bone.

Just in case you were wondering.

So here is where I would put a picture of my cotton ball covered legs after Round Three with Veinessa. However, I would prefer that you return readers continue to do so and to that end I am posting a picture of JoeyKatt. He would never jab a jab a tiny needle with a syringe full of vein killing solution into a vein above your shin bone. Unless you failed to feed him...or let him out....or feed him...

You paid HOW MUCH to find out having a tiny needle with a syringe full of vein killing solution into a vein above your shin bone would hurt?! Now feed me. Again.