Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Next Time I'll Just Buy A Calculator

We're all familiar with Tom Cruise's famous line from the movie Jerry Maguire: "You complete me." I remember watching, sighing, then thinking, "Wait a second! I don't need some dude to complete me. I AM complete! No lame-ass guy is gonna..." Blah, blah, blah. I was so full of shit. Not that I disagree with what I was trying to say. I still hold that sentiment to be true. Oh, okay, I'll say it. I was being a hypocrite.

I have always loved musicians; throughout my twenties, into my thirties and, well, now. I still love them. If they can sing, so much the better. I don't play a single instrument and when I sing, most people ask me not to. As far back as my early childhood I have fantasized that this was not the case. (Insert overly dramatic sigh here) I love how they can pick up an instrument and create something beautiful that didn't exist before. I imagine it's akin to the feeling I get when I sit down to write and the words flow out of me seemingly of their own volition. Sure, sometimes my rock-n-roll bad boys played covers of other musician's work, but their interpretation of those songs didn't and couldn't exist without them. Art is like that. It's personal. I prefer my friend Sergio's rendition of KISS's "Hard Luck Woman" over the original. His wife Tammie is a good friend of mine and I have to say, I'm always a little jealous of her when I hear him play. Not that I want Sergio in THAT way. I am just in love with the idea of having that kind of talent around the house every day.

My last boyfriend was a math professor. Yeah, I know. Yawn. But here's what I loved about that: I am a mathematical moron. I need pen and paper to add simple two digit numbers together. That's not to say I don't appreciate math. It's everywhere. In finances, nature, design and, yes, music. I do understand that through math, one can get a far greater understanding of the world we live in. Really, I get it. There was something about watching him have such command over a subject so mysterious to me that made me swoon a little. Smart is sexy.The fact that I needed much tutoring to pass his beginning algebra class (yeah, he was my professor, SHUT UP!) with a C did little to dissuade me.

Not long ago I decided to attend pastry school. I picked a school and started the application process. Part of that process involved sitting in on a class taught by a master pastry chef. The chef was HOT! He spoke with a French accent and, c'mon, who doesn't love a man with a French accent? I watched mesmerized as he deftly folded butter into dough for croissants. Here was a man who sounded sexy, and not only knew what a zabaglione was, he could whip one up blindfolded.

It didn't work out with any of these men. The musicians (Yeah, there were several. Cut me some slack, I was young.) all seemed to prefer women who could make their own music. Or sometimes they just preferred other women...lot's of them. The math professor seemed to prefer someone of his own cerebral caliber. Sometimes it got demeaning. "Look Janina, even YOU can understand this..." Pphhfftt. Whatever. And what of Chef Ooh-La-La? Married. Bummer. It seems they weren't looking to complete anyone. They wanted someone to compliment them. Hmph. Imagine that.

I haven't given up. I still want a man to serenade me, but I'll have to keep my finger on the pulse of what's happening in the musical world if I want us to connect on that level. I'll learn what I need from professors and master chefs then move on. Or I can still dream, and hope that I find a baking musician who can calculate the tip in his head. Anyone know where I can find him?

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Hysterectomy Hyster-schmectomy

I'm having surgery in the morning. They're taking away my ladybits. By this time tomorrow, my uterus and I will have parted ways. My fallopian tubes and ovaries are also going bye-bye, but it's the removal of my uterus that's making me weepy as I write this. I'm not scared of surgery, not at all. I worked for years in the medical field and, so far as my beliefs go, I consider myself a woman of science. I've had multiple surgeries and I believe my tonsils are the only body parts left that I can spare. In case you're wondering, no, I don't have cancer. I have fibroids that cause me to bleed like a slasher film victim. Oh wow, did you hear that? That was the sound of my male readers leaving this page and doing a Google image search for "Bodacious Boobies" instead. That's okay. Like the Terminator, they'll be back.

So I was saying, I think I'll miss my uterus. Maybe it's because my uterus was my son's first bachelor pad. He lived and thrived there. Perhaps it's because it's kinda attached to my vajayjay, and I really like my vajayjay. Or maybe it's because my insane sister Debi has been trying to convince me that I'm allowing my body to be raped and stripped of my womanhood. This is the same nutcase who recently bought a vintage tampon case and wants to fill it with Glitter Fortune Tampons. (You think I'm making this up? No, I kid you not.) I'm hoping that, like all my reproductive-organ-free girlfriends have promised me, I won't miss it a bit.

I've been told by several well-meaning individuals-yes, including Debi- that I should keep my ovaries or I'll find myself plunged head first into menopause. Well, guess what? Been there, done that. The blood tests confirmed it. Most people are shocked to hear this. "But you're too young to have gone through menopause!" Um, no I'm not. Granted I'm on the younger end of the scale, but well within the average range nonetheless. I just look too young to have gone through menopause. Cool huh?

Speaking of Le Change, let me tell you, it sucks. You heat up and sweat like a champion in a habanero pepper-eating contest and your libido goes, well, it just goes. Call me a wuss, but I got myself on hormone replacement therapy faster than you can say atomic meltdown. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I KNOW there are alternatives. Whatever. I'll just take my Prempro along with my thyroid pills and Ambien and wash it down with a glass of cabernet. (Yes, I'm joking about the cabernet! Sorta.) So, chemically speaking, this shouldn't be too much of a change for my body. There's just one little thing I want to add post-surgery: Testosterone baby!

Most people think it's the missing estrogen that makes your mojo go the way of John Mayer in a relationship. It's not. It's that tiny bit of testosterone in that swimming pool of estrogen that makes you want to have hot monkey sex. And, quite frankly, it's what I miss the most. Not just having it, but wanting it. I have a whole drawer full of sexy lingerie that I haven't dragged out since my hormones nose-dived a year and a half ago.  The good news? I recently spent a lovely afternoon with an equally lovely man who whispered all manner of yummy things that he wants to do to me. And guess what? I want those yummy things done to me! There is still hope. I asked him if he would still love me without all my ladyparts. His response: "Yes, of course! I'll be gentle.You'll still have a clitoris right?" (Fanning myself) Whew!

Of course, I will have to be careful and find just the right dose of testosterone. I mean, as much as I want my inner sex kitten back, I really don't want to turn into a husky-voiced Sasquatch with a nasty temper either. A dab will do me.

All things aside, I'm kinda, sorta looking forward to surgery a bit. I get a month of laying around in my pj's and not lifting anything heavier than a frying pan. I'm also looking forward to not freaking out whenever my period is even one hour late despite the use of glow-in-the-dark condoms. So, now that I've poked fun at my sister Debi and overshared enough to embarrass even my mother, and believe me, she doesn't embarrass easily, I'm off to bed. Yes, it's early for me, but you see, I'm having surgery in the morning.