NAMES WE'D RATHER BE WITHOUT

Ok, fellow aging broads and broad-ettes.  Or, broaderinos.  If you are like me, you tend to cruise along occasionally reading the N.Y.Times Science section and getting horrendously guilty afterwards (I am not single-handedly saving the world from climate change!  I have not given 2 billion dollars to the eradication of malaria!  I could use my cholesterol numbers when playing the lottery, they are so high!), then let go of all that blamed information that is making us crazy and go have a glass of wine, or two, on the deck.  Or perhaps download a new crappy romance onto your Kindle--with the exception of "50 Shades of Gray," which doesn't qualify as writing.  Ever.  Or erotica.  Ever. Don't make me go into details.  It's too embarrassing.

So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face.  It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed.  By a man with an English accent!  It made it all bearable, trust me.  Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say.  We won't mention colonoscopies.  I am not an admirer of those.  But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day.  Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.

I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that.  OAB.  It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad."  Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch."  Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder."  What happened to partying naked?  Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth.  Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?"  Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying."  As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder."  (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think.  I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.

I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know.  I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me.  It doesn't fit my inner image of me.

The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder.  Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld.  Or Cheney.  "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know.  Wouldn't that be cool?

In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall.  I go there to relax.  I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal.  Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.

And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off.  With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.