The "M" Word

**Warning to our legions of male fans/admirers/potential suitors: What I am about to share involves graphic detail of the unpleasant side of reproduction. No sexy talk-talk. Come back tomorrow and we'll see what we can do for you.**

A few days ago I posted on the Facebook a complaint that Mother Nature, fickle bitch that she tends to be at this time of year, REALLY should make up her mind as to whether she's hot or cold. Her meteorological mood swings are killin' me.

At that, a lovely, male doctor friend of CG1 and mine who lives just south of here suggested that perhaps it wasn't Mother Nature after all, that perhaps I was suffering from The Vapors.

Which, being only half-fluent in Southernese I assume means...The "M" Word.

Oh, HELL no. I'm only 41 years + 2 months old! I'm still a kid. A mere girl child.

No. Nonononnonononononononononono!

But, my peeps, the evidence in favor of this cyber-diagnosis is mounting.

I've been...for the last week or two...waking up at night...cold and clammy.

I thought it was because I'm fighting some serious respiratory ick right now, but...now I'm worried: isn't cold and clammy a precursor to hot and dripping sweat?

PLEASE, someone, tell me it isn't so. I can't do m...men...The "M" Word. I can't do, I tell ya. I won't do it, see? You'll never take me alive, Coppers....

So there's this other thing - for you new readers - I had a partial plumbing-removal procedure two years ago (Stage 4 and 5 endometriosis - it wasn't pretty). Just after surgery the doc recommended removing the rest of...the plumbing.

(Second verse, same as the first)

Oh, HELL no.

You aren't doing that to me and throwing me into m...meno...you-know-what at the tender age of 40.

Nobody gets in to see the ovaries, not nobody, not no how.

"Better sooner than later" he says.

"You would say that since men, ironically, don't experience menopause (there, I said it)," said I.

And so we left it at that. And here I am. At 4 a.m., cold and clammy...sweaty-ish even. And thoroughly displeased with the angels - or St. Peter or whoever assigns body parts - for, when I was little more than a twinkle in my Daddy's eye, issuing me all the rotten crap in my pelvis that's never worked properly: A lemon of a digestive system, a tap-dancing bowel and factory reproductive parts that have never worked.

But, hey, look on the bright side - I got amazing hearing and a double-portion of ass....

I demand a refund!