The Mona Lisa Smile

From the shelf to the cart, from the cart to the belt, from the belt to the cart, from the cart to the trunk, from the trunk to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the counters, cupboards, drawers, and refrigerator . . . what am I talking about? I'll take grocery shopping for $200 Alex! Is it any wonder my brain has shriveled up to the size of a dried lentil? I need to soak it in something to plump it back up! And I must thank the grocery stores of America for providing those mini-carts, or as I like to refer to them . . . bumper carts, to engage and entertain my children, or as I like to refer to them . . . demolition derby drivers. Ever had one of those suckers slammed into your Achilles heel? "Darling, I love you, but if you crash into my heel one more time, I might have to render you unconscious". Or even better, when they drive into another shopper, who then wants to render me unconscious for bringing my little darlings to the store! Why oh why is my seven-year-old running down the isle, when she knows that I expressly forbade usage of the mini-cart unless she could be focused and responsible with it? Because, her twelve-year-old brother, who REALLY should know better, is chasing her with his mini-cart. Just shoot me now.

I am shocked, shocked, to discover upon my return home, that I have forgotten a few key items. Was I a touch distracted, perchance? Or am I just touched? I am convinced that when you breast feed your children, they don't just get milk, they also get brain cells. I have a vague recollection of actually functioning like a reasonably intelligent human being at one time. Now I find that I resemble a pinball or shooting gallery duck, more closely. My children think I am nuts. I think my children made me nuts, so it is only fair that they should reap the benefits! Their drooling, lobotomized mother is making yet another list so that she doesn't forget things . . . only to forget where she just put the list down, and now flies, screeching like a banshee, through the house, "Where's my list? I just had it. Where could it have gone? I've only been in two rooms, how many places could it be?" Wisely, my young avert their eyes and back slowly from the room in an attempt to save themselves, for now the crazy woman has started babbling incoherently to herself. (Something about her head not being attached or other scary image.)

I imagine years from now, at family gatherings, my children will reminisce about all the crazy things I would do, and point to me as the reason for their years of therapy. I know this, because my siblings and I have done this very same thing to our mother. My mother chuckles gamely along with a knowing smile . . . a Mona Lisa smile. Ahhh yes, the mystery of the Mona Lisa smile. How many times has your mother said to you, "Just wait until you have children of your own"! Mystery solved. Mona Lisa was a mother. She knows that one day, you will have children of your own, and then you will see!

You Say Picaso, I Say Picasso

However you say it, my body seems to have become the physical manifestation of a Picaso. Not the early stuff - later on when they all had wanky eyes and disheveled parts. I used to admire those pieces of art, until I resembled them. My brain is having trouble catching up with and accepting all the physical changes. They came so fast - I hadn't realized my own vanity. A much bigger part of my personality was wrapped up in my physical image than I care to admit. I didn't think it was such a big deal to me, until the healthy, youthful body I had was rapidly transformed into a menopausal, middle-aged woman's body 10-15 years my senior. At the rate my ass is dropping, pretty soon I won't have to bend my knees to sit down. (I stole that joke, but I don't know from who!) My radiated side is shriveling up like a burger patty tossed into a microwave. I think they left me in too long. Apparently, I can expect that shriveling (capsular contraction) to continue for the next six months to a year. I have a vague impression that once I stop warping, it might be possible to fix it a little with more surgery. Something to look forward to. Oooooh, speaking of surgery, there's another one they want me to have. In fact, I should have scheduled it already, but frankly, I don't wanna'. I guess they figure, I'm not really using these girlee bits anymore, and it increases my chances of survival . . . so audios ovaries and uterus. Maybe it will balance me out. I had the upper bits removed, so to keep in balance, I need the lower bits removed. I am a Libra after all!

It's strange - when my husband and I got married, he was five years my senior. Now, it has flip-flopped, and I am ten years his senior. Amazingly, he still loves me - body image issues and all. It's hip to be a cougar, right? I'm going to hang on to that rationalization!

I know, waaaa waaaa waaa, move on already! I'm working on it! It just takes time. Time that, fortunately, due to all these treatments, I have a little more of. Besides, Pablo and I have a little more customizing to do before I'm finished!