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Where’s a Blinking Bathroom when you need one, Gol-darn-it!

You know you’re old when you have to plan your day around bathrooms. One of these days I’m going to get rich after writing a book called, Every Secret Pot and Pit Stop in Monterey County.

Kegal exercises aren’t enough. And don’t expect sympathy from men who can whip out their privates and write their names on a tree, sidewalk, wall or bramble bush at whim. It’s a vile and disgusting habit that repulses women, although the fraternity of men seems to approve of it.

But I have news for you men; we menopausal women are learning sly ways to get back at you.

Take, for instance, the time I was out on a nature walk and nature called. (It never fails, when I’m miles from my car or home.) I tried using mind control for the first 10 minutes or so.

“It’s just like laughter, or a belly ache, or delivering a baby,” I told myself, although I’ve never delivered anything more than a letter. “It comes in waves. Just suck it up, get through the next one, and after you’ve done it long enough, it’ll pass.”
Sorry, but my bladder wasn’t listening. I bit my lip, hummed silly songs, counted backwards from “a thousand bottles of beer on the wall.” Of course, thinking of liquid was foolhardy. And, then, every house I passed seemed to have its sprinkler on or a babbling fountain out front.

It got so bad I was honestly thinking of knocking on a stranger’s door.

However, just in the nick of time, my car was in sight. And, like a child dancing from one foot to the other, I danced my way to the door handle and – well, you know how much worse it gets when relief is on the horizon? I barely landed my seat on the seat and Niagara blew.

That was many years ago, and it hasn’t happened since. But the humiliation of it all is branded into my shame core.
So, here’s the part about getting even with a man who, in precisely the same predicament, would expect a woman to forgive him if she happened upon him while he was facing a wall looking at her over his shoulder: I eventually sold the car to a man!

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Did I give full disclosure? Heck no! And I’m not about to tell you the model of car it was or to whom I sold it.

Maybe it’s an oedipal fantasy, but it’s my private occasional giggle to know that I unwittingly “marked” my territory just like a dog, unbeknownst to the male driver . . .

Musings: Two Brown Sparrows

Purrsnikitty plunges into the plush leopard tube I have bought for her and her sibling, Tabitha, and slides onto home base – a crinkly Mervyn’s bag at the opposite end.

I adopted these Tabbies to entertain one another. Not happening. My “lazy bones,” as I now call them, will no longer play unless I, Alpha cat, not only join them, but mechanize their toys.

Strewn from rooms to hallways, my house resembles a disheveled Toys R Us. At the old age of 11 months, do they appreciate my purchases? Hardly. They’ve figured out how the ball goes around in the circular plastic tube, so that one is a sleeper. And feathered toys? They’re all bald. How about plastic balls with jingle bells inside? Ho-hum.

Aside from playing bounce-off-the-walls (they do, occasionally, get a wild burr up their butts and challenge each other to see who can throw themselves higher up the wall), I have tied two shoestrings together and they will only chase them if I run around the house pulling them. The second I stop, they stop.

They are giving me a second workout and I’m developing a healthy grudge. I need Cat-Anon.

When I adopted them, I had just lost another cat. Truffle was the yummiest, long-haired, part-Siamese, part-Rag Doll, part-Heinz 57 cat that I’d ever had the good fortune to adopt. So, when I saw these two plain brown sparrows curled up together in a cage at the pet supply store, I was chagrined. I wanted a pair of long hairs in some delectable color.

Problem is, even though I told myself to keep looking, I’d already named them that day.

Long story short: they are the loves of my life. At 8.5 pounds, Tabby has stayed short and cobby, with a golden belly just like a squirrel’s. Purr is a “whomper,” as I call her, at 12 pounds. She’s my jungle cat.

And as I roll onto my back with feet in the air, or charge around the house trailing a pair of shoelaces behind me, I wouldn’t trade them for a pair of Persians. They look more beautiful to me each day . . .


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