“There’s a lot of ‘girlie’ stuff going on out there tonight.” A co-worker gave me the vague lowdown at the start of my shift.
Sounds interesting. I think to myself since I’m a woman and I’ve never attended one of these ‘women only’ events in my life so this was a first for me.
I work my butt off and I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity to be working full-time. I don’t mind making up my holiday hours on my days off. I’m very flexible and dedicated when it comes to doing that. And hey, those sick days are hellish to muscle through, but I’ve had to work through them, no exceptions. I only missed two days thus far. Once due to a fever and the other due to a serious bout of the ‘three week crud’ whereby it actually lasted me from Thanksgiving Day until the end of February to fully recover from. The second go around I believe I contracted from god only knows where, but it wasn’t as bad and my sore throat has finally diminished as of today.
Now with Easter behind us I was bummed out. I missed attending church due to my sore throat. I missed out listening to the parables about how Christ has risen. I would like to enjoy a balanced religious life again, but that’s not going to happen for me anytime soon. Before I was working full-time I was all set to serve as communion assistant again and had to forgo that once I took my second job. And to that I remind myself, Peace of the Lord be with you always.
But I don’t hear “And also with you!”
I simply carry on about my work.
What do I miss most about having to completely forgo my church attendance? Serving as Communion assistant, of course and being seated in the pews for second service! I loved every aspect from assisting the pastor with communion to attending church and being a parishioner. And since I was so dedicated to doing the Lord’s work prior to finding full-time employment, I purchased my own communion assistant robe and had to have it altered and hemmed to fit my petite slender size since the adult communion robes didn’t fit me. And the acolyte robes for the teens were slightly different in style and none of those fit me, either.
Plus I take great pride owning and donning something sacred and holy. Now the cinctures I made myself and I put three Franciscan knots on them. They represent the three sacred vows: poverty, obedience, and chastity. And here now years later, I’d have to undo one of those three vows… err, knots. I’m not wealthy, by the way, far from it. I’m able to get by on the ‘average’ wage-earner’s income.
Okay, now what’s been happening lately with me aside from working full-time? For starters I helped clean up after a ‘For Propaganda Only’ night and it was a mess of spilled wine, confetti, trash, business cards, food, crumbs, and I had a terrible time getting squeegee machine to the opposite side of the building. It was the “Night of the loiterers.” They see me and keep right on standing around even after I politely tapped the horn. I need to move it or lose it. I have three entry ways to wash and I have less than an hour to complete that, drain and plug in the machine, head over to restrooms and clean those yet. And I have to empty eight trashcans and let the other twelve slide. So, yeah, I have a lot to pack in before I clock out and go home. I’m patient and politely allow the people to leave, then I proceed on.
Had I been off work then I likely wouldn’t have attended this event. Why’s that, you might ask? Well, for starters the tent cards I would clean around for the past month or so on a daily basis leading up to this event were (and likely always will be) a bait and switch kind of event, if not, lacking straight forward information as to what the event was all about. I like to read about specifics of upcoming events whenever possible so there won’t be any possible disappointment or a waste of my gas and money.
I did enjoy seeing the place absolutely packed. I’m always willing to be the first to drop what they’re doing and offer assistance when it’s needed. And I’m also a good listener, too and love to socialize.
But something is severely lacking with the title ‘For Propaganda Only’.
I’m the very curious type of individual, especially when there’s a big ‘to-do’ event happening and I’m right there experiencing it. I wanted to see what all the hubbub was about, so I made haste with my cleaning cart before I had to return to my trade-off area for the evening. I relieved my fellow co-worker from the ‘same old-same old’ routine just like we had agreed on the night before.
And what did I see at these tables that were setting up? Was it anything taboo? Anything that would knock my socks off? Anything risqué?
Kind of ‘yes’ plus a ‘no’ because it was more ‘job fair-ish’ like type of an event. There was one career/ job opportunity table set up for the local hospital. When one of the workers saw me wander up in my uniform, joined at my slender hip with a Walkie talkie they dully, (almost to the point of now being annoyed by my presence), asked me if I was even remotely interested in a career at the hospital. I gave the bored worker a quick glance in the eye and very politely told them, “No, I was just curious to know what you have here.”
I was waiting on a large throng of people to disperse so I can maneuver my cleaning cart through the building. The worker shoved a sticky note booklet with the hospital’s name on it in my hand just to get me out of their sights.
Gee, thanks. And then they chatted it up with a herd of women that sauntered up to the table. The worker’s tone was cheery and outgoing to them. Seesh! I think to myself. Whatever…
Next table: Hazardous Materials Dump-off location. Oh, yeah, baby!
Seriously?! We women are supposed to find this under the category: night of fun per the vague description on the table tent card?
Well, then if dumping off half-empty dried up paint, empty bleach bottles, and a fridge with free-on on a sweltering summer day in a vehicle that has absolutely no air conditioning is in the neighborhood of awesome avenue and oh boy this is fun! Cul-de-sac, then forget it. A Hazardous Waste drop off location doesn’t convey in my mind as being anything remotely… err, *ahem*, for women only. It sounds very manly if you ask me. The unattended table displayed pencils, fridge magnets with the location’s general info, and a few scattered leaflets about different types of hazardous waste materials and how to transport them to the hazard waste building.
Next table was selling tank tops with such phrases as “Tattoos and Whiskey makes me frisky!” Okay, I’m giving that tank top careful scrutiny with a very bored look crossing my face. I don’t find tattoos nor whiskey even remotely playful. My mind views both as unattractive nowadays. I’m attracted to the very sexy clean cut type of man nowadays. He’s got to above all have a job. And where the attraction for me lies is to his level of intelligence, wholesome in appearance and wearing a uniform is a plus. That aside, I have tats and I’m scraping money together to get mine removed someday so I can feel like a beautiful woman again. I won’t have flawless skin I realize this and I don’t, nobody does, but to have my teenage mistakes laser removed for good will give me a huge boost in my confidence and make me feel great about myself again.
My eyes fall on another tank top that stated something to the effect of, “I’m cute, cuddly, and out to destroy, so back off, you (explicative).”And there’s a depiction of a kitten on said tank top donning boxing gloves. Uhn, okay… moving along.
The wine flowed at this event. The women buzzed around these tables getting wasted while snacking on the BBQ handouts, partially genetically modified ingredient-filled crackers and maybe some cheese bites thrown in.
Snacking… pity for me. I don’t get my thirty minute lunch until two hours later. I don’t get to snack on the clock, period. And this could account for a lot as to why I don’t get the balanced nutrition my body demands. It isn’t so much the physical demands of the job per se, it’s just that snacks aren’t allowed on the floor. Once you clock in, that’s it. Sure, you can guzzle water or soda your entire shift, but that’s it.
For me being a partial Vegan (since I still consume eggs which is vital for my protein intake), and full Vegetarian my body requires a regular intake of healthy snacks here and there since I no longer consume meat, chicken or fish to get a balance of protein into my diet. My body craves nutrients and I understand this is extremely vital if I’m going to continue to have the endurance to perform my required job duties.
But I try not to think of my fruit and hard-boiled egg waiting for me in my lunch bag. I move along. I had some Bob’s Redmill oatmeal and Chia seeds before I left the house, but that was several hours before I had to clock in.
The first time I had a cold and sore throat was killer on me and the stress my body was under with moving and selling the old place I was in, boy howdy, I don’t know how I managed to bounce back and it took me three months to fully shake whatever I had. I never saw a doctor because I don’t have one, for starters. Secondly, I don’t like seeing doctors almost as much as I dread making a ‘yearly’ with my canoe inspector no matter how handsome they may be. They didn’t have any canoe inspectors at this event, by the way but the mainstream health care field flooded several tables with that darn pink ribbon and Aflacc (the bare bones crappy ‘liability’ coverage of health insurance) and offered free pens with the breast cancer awareness ribbon fused to them. What a good way to ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening for women in my eyes. I don’t see anything ‘fun’ about seeing cancer awareness this, and HPV/ preventative cancer vaccines for children and teens, what every parent needs to know, skin and colon/rectal cancer—please! Key words they used for HPV has no symptoms, and sometimes it doesn’t have to be spread through intercourse. Eh, somewhere along the way I suppose ‘sexual’ became too wordy so the editors elected unanimously to just drop it. I am so cranking out my sex ed field manual from 1989 when I get home, oh man!
HPV is like the Twenty-first generation’s new potentially deadly virus much like HIV/AIDS was back in the mid-80s when it had a trickle down effect, and by the dawn of the early 90s it was quite frightening to think of having sex with the opposite sex back in my day. And it brought new unwanted worries and stress and mass confusion since clear and concise knowledge about the history of HIV/AIDS was still being documented and the facts were lost in a massive sea of ‘still in the dark’ information from my [then] thirteen-year old perspective at the very start of my own lone, rough, dark adolescent journey.
In retrospect, I thank the good Lord above we had no mandated preventative cancer vaccines growing up, including all of the other new vaccines that contain questionable ingredients and likely come with a host of long-term dangerous side effects more than likely. If it won’t kill ya’ now, doesn’t mean it won’t unleash something that could be linked back to it fifty—maybe even sixty years from now.
On another table a creepily familiar radioactive sticker adhered to a sealed clear tube of radioactive substance sends a chill down my spine. It glared at me like a fallout shelter sign. A horrific image floods my brain of those old ‘duck and cover’ educational films of the cold war-era. Those old creepy 50’s films came to the forefront of my mind. And that little tube of clear substance had to be like a chemotherapy drug often injected into a patient via a chemo port. Somebody famous that I had long admired and looked up to as a positive male role model throughout my adolescent and even adulthood came to mind. They have long since been deceased for 26 years now. Not a day goes by that I don’t think fondly of them and wish I could have had the chance to have met them or wrote them a letter before they sadly passed away. He was such a good man, Lord… I turn away as though viewing them in lying in state. It didn’t help that the table cloth was black, either.
I bypass this table like it has the plague. And I don’t want any of the freebees they eagerly hand out. I took one placard and later tossed it in the trash since it was placed next to that clear tube of suspicious-looking liquid radiation. Why in God’s name would they leave something extremely dangerous like that out in the open? That’s like displaying plutonium and placing a sticky note on it stating, “Squish me, feel me, play with me.” Holy Mackerel, when nurses and doctors who specialize in Oncology (that’s a fancy medical term for cancer specialist) and administer chemo to cancer patients, they have to gown up from head to toe like a Hazmat worker and handle that stuff as though they were disarming a ticking time bomb that’s ready to explode.
Somebody needs to scratch fun off the table tent cards for this Women’s Only event. I was roped over to that table by some thick-accented woman telling me if I filled out their survey card I could then receive a free tiny bottle of pink nail polish.
I crook my eyebrow and throw them a suspicious eye. I gaze at the tiny bottle of formaldehyde-Tulane-laden nail polish that will likely contain some nasty potential carcinogens, and the bold print on their survey glares at me that made me think back to my last visit with my canoe inspector telling me… “and now that you’re getting older,”
Please, stop it right there.
Let give men some sound advice from a woman’s perspective: One thing a canoe inspector should never, ever tell any woman is remind her that she’s getting old(er). Some women do and will take offense to that. Also, it is still seen as somewhat rude and insensitive in society. Men want to broach the topic with us don’t use the word old and never ask a woman to her face how old she is or make her pencil it in on a form. Age is just that, a number. It shouldn’t be a deciding factor in regards to health or automatically place either gender be it female or male into a ‘risk factor’ category. I will do the dance of joy when these high and low, low risk categories get kicked to the curb entirely in the future.
And then the canoe inspector went on to tell me, “Some school of thought would say you might want to think about getting your annual MAMOGRAM.”
I did butt heads with my canoe inspector after they told me this and laughed at the same time through my visible irritation simply because I’m not a stupid woman. I come across as stubborn at times, yes you bet. And you can tell me anything, but if I don’t like what I’m being told, I view it as an ‘order’ and won’t listen.
I can’t just don my clothes and storm out because the canoe inspector has me flat on my back in the middle of a breast exam. I stare at the boring white ceiling tile above me for a distraction. I let their lecture go in one ear and out the other. Okay, I get it that canoe inspectors have to tell every woman they see she really should start thinking about getting her annual mammograms by a certain age. And right off the bat, the first question on the survey is “Are you 40 years of age?”
“Have you scheduled a mammogram at all in the last 2-3 years?”
“Have you received your first mammogram at 20 years of age?”
“Will you discuss your high risk chance of getting breast cancer with your physician/ physician assistant and/ or OB/GYN?”
“Have you asked your physician to perform a breast exam on you at all?”
And here are some questions I wanted to add:
“Do you know what a female breast looks like?”
“Does a woman know what her breasts look like?”
“Does she understand that her breasts won’t be perky her whole life long?”
“Does she realize that bras can cause premature sagging/ weakening of the breasts?” (This is due to a weakened Cooper’s ligament which is the band of tissue that supports the breasts).
“Do you know that every time a woman goes in for a mammogram 1,000 grams of radiation exposure are stored in her body and never leave?”
“Do you know the more mammograms a woman receives, the more radiation is stored and could lead to cancer at some point in her lifetime?”
“Do you know if cancer were present in the breast tissue, when that is compressed between two glass slides, the chance is very likely it will rupture and send more cancer cells pumping through her system?”
And what they don’t tell women is that let’s face it. Gravity will take its toll and those beauties do change shape and size when a woman stops lactating and breastfeeding. She will also loose breast size if she gains or loses weight, lifts weights, and these changes shouldn’t set off a panic alarm, per se. And as she ages, the breasts will change shape and size. Yet here again, we are so thoroughly brainwashed to run to our canoe inspectors to bare it all for them and possibly unwanted pokes and prodding.
Come on, women, let’s do our internet homework on the changes of the female breasts. Also, as we age, our breasts will change. Nowhere do I see this listed on the placard, and my belief is that certain keywords are an effective scare tactic because the mainstream health field knows that women can be very persuasive, especially if you offer them wine and impair their judgment a little bit and I’m not posting this to incite ire. I’m just expressing my opinion about this evening and what I saw. I don’t drink, by the way.
The thick-accented woman asked me if I’d like to fill out their breast cancer “high risk” survey and give them all of my pertinent personal information. I pointed to the word, ‘Mammogram’ and told her straight up, “Well, I don’t agree with this.” And the look on my face was very serious. She was speechless and gave me a look of utter shock as though I had cussed her out to her face.
“You don’t need to get a mammogram in order to fill out our survey.” She fumbled for a reply, still quite bewildered.
And point blank, I politely put forth my own two cents worth, “You do realize that 1,000 radiation stay trapped in a woman’s breast tissue and body when exposed to these mammogram x-rays? And why in God’s name would you want to flatten the breast between two glass plates and have any cancer cells (if any are present) to possibly rupture and send out more cancer cells like a raging wildfire throughout her body?”
The woman’s jaw dropped open and snapped shut. She stuttered out her next sentence. She could clearly see I was vehemently opposed to their mammogram survey and mainstream propaganda even though my voice never changed pitch nor hinted at an ounce of emotion other than seriousness.
“I’m natural path,” I added. “Sorry I don’t agree with you, but I won’t be filling this out. It goes against my chosen lifestyle.” I never did mention that late 19th century natural path and Physical Culture founder Bernarr Macfadden is my role model for health, beauty and exercise and has been for many, many years now. I own several of his books on Physical Culture and his encyclopedia set.
She told me, “Oh, no need to be sorry. We women… we—uh- err, have a right to decide our health care and what steps we should take.”
“We do, hunh? And you really believe that? I never got that chance when I was 22. I was put through a living hell when I was forced to undergo a mammogram and I hope to never endure another one in my lifetime.” I saw a clearing in the crowd and went on my way.
The old ‘bait and switch’ event. You show up expecting to have a carefree time and leave with a freebee bag full of mainstream literature instead and a few little other things like Passion with Jan adult-themed parties, chocolates, sweets, and yet the local hospital is telling women to lay off all soft drinks showing a picture of how many grams of processed sugar soda and fruit juices contain and strongly advise in tiny bold text, “Drink more water,” yet guess what they serve? Wine. Alcohol contains sugar, too. But there’s no mention kicking that to the curb. Some women will attend this event thinking the wine will lead to unrestrained merriment and uninhibited spending sprees—woo-hoo!
Instead, we as a culture are constantly assailed by politically-driven mainstream health propaganda wherever we are and this event turned out to be no different. I look myself over in my average uniform. Nothing fancy about it or remotely special about how I look wearing it. I move about gracefully, keeping a close eye on the crowded place. There’s nothing special about what I do. I clean for a living. I love my job, enjoy my fellow co-workers and sure we all have our moments, but that’s life.
And then I mosey on over to the other side of the event and meet by happenstance a fellow likeminded natural path soul who I just had to congratulate for opting not to vaccinate their child, and who were, themselves vaccine and flu shot free, too. That was a plus in my book. I was so proud of them for their decision.
We chatted up a storm on various natural path/alternative natural path lifestyle topics, but when they told me about their doctor of choice (after the long frustration of trying to find a mainstream medical professional that would take into account their natural path lifestyle and take them seriously) I had to explain I knew of the doctor in question and didn’t care for them from what a relative of mine experienced when seeing them.
We did agree on the same stance against the annual mammogram brouhaha going on over yonder a few tables away, with that wheel of Russian roulette listing all cancer ailments minus the one that took out the famous person I had admired growing up. And our small talk landed on canoe inspectors. We did wish and hoped there were actual ‘natural path’ canoe inspectors that practiced locally, but good luck finding them. I doubt they truly exist, and if they do, here again, the chances are about as good as getting ran over by a herd of psycho wielding looters during a blackout. It just may not be a reality in our lifetime.
Keep pipe dreaming, girlie. I think to myself. Natural path canoe inspectors just don’t exist, and if they ever did/ do, they’d be making house calls to only those with disposable incomes with top notch health insurance coverage. And their clinics, I’m sure are searching for a needle in a haystack.
I parted ways with that dear woman who self-promoted a healthy diet, nutrition and offered seminars, email updates, plastered Facebook, Twitter and Instagram with her self-taught knowledge. I applauded her for making a dent in this mainstream-saturated society we live in.
I know all about healthy eating, raw fruits and veggies, dieting, etc. But she did come up with a possible cause as to why I keep coming down with a recurring sore throat and cough after I briefly explained my bout with it to her. She added it might be something in my working environment causing it. It could be in the HAVAC unit and until she told me, I gave little thought to it. I know for certain those automatic air fresheners that are located all over do cause me to cough as well. And the cleaners I use daily flair up my allergies something fierce.
The disinfectant Odoban contains a bacterial strain and it’s loaded with chemicals and fragrances. It causes me non-stop coughing spells and the mere after spray of it that lingers makes my cough worse. After about a month of exposure to Odoban, I had to switch over to using Pine-Sol diluted with water. My system can’t handle Odoban exposure. And whenever another employee uses Odoban, I don a surgical face mask because the allergic reaction I receive is twenty fold misery for me. I love my job and circumvent wherever and whenever I can do so. The surgical masks help very little, but its far better than getting a full dose of Odoban in my lungs.
I’m also having allergy issues with the Glimmer-O water based metal polish cleaner and it’s oil-based cousin is far worse on me due to its lingering fumes. Oh, and one of the dangers of long-term exposure to Glimmer-O is it will eventually lead to defattening of the skin (that’s where the fat deposits are depleted in the skin) and the fumes, if inhaled for long periods of time even with proper ventilation and wearing a thin surgical face mask, can still cause a myriad of possible inhalation dangers, too. That makes me one very chemically-sensitive person.
And there was the extremely watered-down ‘adult’- themed table. I bought a pair of spicy dice just because they were so unique and very out of the ordinary. The dice are manufactured by Cal Exotics Novelty, LLC. I want to spoof these dice, by the way. The lady in charge of the table noticed I was giving careful scrutiny to the stuff she had for sale.
Massage oils, lotions, couples ‘date night’ coupons with intimate phrases… now I’ve seen it all. Yet, I lack a man. Oh, well, I guess it doesn’t matter. And the lady in charge kindly parks herself at the table and tells me I can take a picture of the item I’m interested in and she’d happily email it to me and give me a deal on anything from her website. I very kindly explained that per company regulations, I can’t have my phone on my person when I’m working the floor. She sees that I’m obviously very intrigued by the dice as I’m meticulously jotting down the company info, website, price and name of the spicy dice.
She tells me, “How much you got on you?”
“Only five bucks.”
“I’ll let em’ go for that.”
“Really?” I was surprised.
“Yep.” She was all smiles.
“Deal.” I took the info with me and returned a few minutes later and bought the dice.
What possessed me to buy a pair of spicy dice? I haven’t a clue other than I want to poke fun of the sex phrases. And it made me think back to what a millennial asked me point blank while we were working late one evening, “You must be gay.” She laughed in my face because there was no man in my life waiting to pick me up after work, leaving me texts, delivering me a lunch, etc.
Stunned, I gave the twenty-something a look of ‘whatever’ and rolled my eyes. “You don’t have a boyfriend!” she joyfully squealed that it echoed throughout the building. I was so glad we were closed for the evening because I would have been mortified had there been a crowd.
I retorted in my studious manner, “Some day the right man is going to march right through those doors,” [I pointed to the far set of double glass doors], “He and I will lock eyes and we’ll just ‘know’ we were meant for each other and fate will have stepped in.”
The young gal just clapped at me. This was her typical response when something bored her to tears she once told me. I’m like, okay, whatever. Stop trying to reason with this younger generation. They’re too far gone, disrespectful, rude and wild.
All in all, the evening had an excellent big turn out I thought. I was relieved to be kept busy most, if not, all of the night. Granted I couldn’t bust chops like I would have liked to have done otherwise. And they had an indoor archery range set up in one of the lounge areas of the building. I love archery. When I got my fifteen minute break, I just had to try it out. I do have some archery experience from many years ago.
There were these two foam-cushioned targets with circular cut-out sponge-like consistency inserts that you shot out with the arrows. Now the arrows had these foam-tipped ends (not take down arrows, mind you). I couldn’t resist asking for a couple of tries.
Back when my ex and I were still together, he and I took up archery. He was exceptionally knowledgeable with archery and I still remember him telling me all about the famous bow hunter, Howard Hill I believe was his name. And my ex mentioned something about a Fred Bear bow and I believe he owned several.
I learned pretty much everything about archery from my ex. And as I practiced more way back when, I gained the physical strength to pull a fifty pound bow. I started off something like 15 or 25 pound bow and gradually gained the strength that way. In retrospect I do regret we sold off our archery equipment and bows. Archery was/ still is so much fun and it came back to me like second nature even though I hadn’t had any practice in 14 years. Boy, how time flies. Anyways, the ladies manning the archery game were kind of annoying by preventing me from adjusting my grip on the bow and showed me how to hold it. I politely told them, “I know, k’?”
The ladies gathered around, watching me, most were whispering about some trivial issues that had no relation to what I was happily doing. It took me several warm up tries. On my fifth try, I hit the back stop with the company’s name and bull’s eye target on it even though it wasn’t the actual target.
And by my sixth and seventh try, I was releasing the arrows as though I was never out of practice. I still remember vividly the quiver clipped at my side. The arrows that my boyfriend spent one week to finish and cure had to be sized down to fit. He hand-glued the feathers which was awesome and very time-consuming as I recall. I could feel the real fur-lined finger protector that gripped the string and slipped over my index and middle fingers. How I missed that and how it brought back some fond memories for me even if just for a few short-lived fifteen minutes. I wasn’t aware that the ladies at the archery game were watching me until one of them was standing close to beside me commenting, “Hey, that was a good shot.”
And “Hey, not bad,” as I hit yet another bull’s eye. I wish there could have been more time for me to enjoy archery practice, but I had to get back on the floor. I have a building to clean.
On my final go around I remarked to the lady standing next to me, “See that target in the lower left-hand corner, keep your eye on it.” I held the bow steady, string and arrow drawn taut, flush with my cheek. I zeroed in on the target and released. Instant bull’s eye! J
“Okay, she just hit four in a row.” The lady standing beside me tried to make sense of what she just watched me do.
I smiled and said, “You think that’s something, watch this.” I loaded the bow, took aim and released. Another bull’s eye. “Thanks.” I said with a smile and handed her back the bow.
”You act like you’ve had a little bit of experience with archery before.” She commented to me.
“A little bit?” I laughed. “Ma’am, I can pull a fifty pound like nobody’s business. At least I could at one time. My ex taught me everything I ever needed and wanted to know about archery.”
I contently resumed my shift. I’m quite amazed at how women interact with each other, especially in public at a women’s only event. We group off in cliques—you know, liken to those in Middle and High School where the popular kids grouped off, the nerds and geeks had their own social sets, and the unpopular clique consisted of less than a handful—I was terribly unpopular all throughout school. And the evening was similar to that, like all different social cliques off in their own worlds. Kind of sad, really.
If they weren’t busy updating their Facebook status or trying out snap chat, then they were yapping on their cell phones, taking some interest in the Plinko game taking place on center stage. There was no live act. No rock stars laying down some serious classics. No wailing screams from heavy metal guitars, either. And no vocalist that could hit a six octave range and stir up the audience into a frenzy of excitement that could pulsate and ripple through a packed venue of energetic concert-goers.
Men will sometimes form instant buddy-buddy camaraderie. We women on the other hand are the exact opposite. I glean this from all I experienced on this evening. I listened to more gossip in the women’s restroom than I care to remember. Two young women, probably not barely 19 years old were discussing taking the pill and how it gave them major hormone disturbances. At their age “hormones” wasn’t in my vocabulary. In fact, ‘disturbances’ would have been foreign to me back then, too. I’m not ass-backwards at Nineteen. The internet is still creeping into a few households. And whatever research I discovered was from the late 90’s. But neither of these gals mentioned how blood clots could possibly form in the legs and travel up to the lungs with long-term pill use. Nor did I hear a peep as to the risk is higher if they’re over the age of 35 and/ or are smokers. When I heard one remark that their mom made them quit the pill [cold turkey] I was thinking, Yikes! Amazing they didn’t suffer any adverse side effects without tapering off the pill.
Before I sign off I just wanted to give a shout out to all my current and past followers out there. I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ve been swamped working two jobs nowadays. I seldom find the time to blog as often as I once used to do, but will make the effort to publish a few posts as my new schedule allows. I love to blog like always and do my best to answer any and all comments on here. It might take me some time, so please, be patient. And to all of my new followers; thank you for subscribing to my antiquing, writing, health, beauty and life blog here at WordPress. I sincerely appreciate it and I will follow back! J
As always, thanks for following, tweeting, sharing, re-blogging, reading, commenting, etc. I truly appreciate it a lot! J Stay tuned…
zippymouse1923 