Suzy Says

Rita wonders if I’ll ever come home.

Now that I’m back:

The Good:

Rita!!! She was so happy to see me! No-one makes you feel more welcome and wonderful than your dog jumping around you for joy and kissing you wherever she can.

Charlie and his friends spoiled her. Apparently, she had grown used to in-room massages in my absence, as well as hanging out with the guys. There were empty pizza boxes and beer cans in the recycling box, since they hung out at my place part of the time so Rita would know it was still her house and I would eventually come back. The guys did a few handyman things for me in my absence, too. There aren’t too many babysitters who also do unsolicited and unpaid chores. Now, that’s a girl’s fantasy of the perfect babysitter, though probably not a guy’s.

Rita had already received her daily ration of admiration by the time I got home. A girl jogging by as Charlie took Rita for a walk puffed out, “She’s – so – beautiful!” as she ran past.

The Bad:

There were no fewer than three break-ins in the building in my absence. One was the new-ish upstairs neighbors, who had both their laptops stolen, the second the feckless girl whose possibly pregnant cat got stuck in the freight elevator, and the third was someone I don’t know. The first two are a little too close for comfort, especially since my “office” is a desk in the kitchen, facing the front door, which I frequently leave open if I’m working or cooking. Those days are over. Good thing I have a dog. Better get a better lock, though.

The Ugly:

The Cruel Crushing Cold continues to torture me and keep the folks at Kleenex in business. Apparently, my sinuses are the cold version of a rent-controlled penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park: too good to leave.

As if that wasn’t enough, I am also suffering (and I do mean suffering) that unmistakable and unbearable reminder that (wo)menopause has once again passed me by. This ordeal seems to worsen with every month, and after 30 years of it, I’m done with it. Unsurprisingly, the alternative is at least as bad, as not worse. Being a woman ain’t for the weak.

I must have a secret masochistic streak, since I kicked off the week with a Monday mammogram* and have a check-up, including the always-delightful Pap test, scheduled for next week.

Why they can’t come up with a better diagnostic method than squashing your assets (and is worse to be a girl whose cups overfloweth, like me, or one who doesn’t and would presumably have to be mushed harder?) into agonized mush? Also am convinced that said squashing only helps gravity in its evil purpose.

There should be some kind of soft, comfy bra that you simply place your boobs into and voil?! Diagnosis! If men had to endure this, they wouldn’t have wasted all that money on the space program and dealt with this far more compelling problem a long time ago.

Other uses for science: some kind of electronic fence that won’t let in mosquitoes and other unpleasant bugs, but still allows birds and butterflies; teleportation, even though my brother is convinced that you might end up in the wrong place with all the wrong pieces.

*At 8 am! But why be any more conscious than you absolutely have to be?