May 24, 2004

My husband is the David Bowie/Ziggy Stardust fan.  But it appears that even though David Bowie can morph and it’s acceptable I, although not quite as scary as the morphed Michael Jackson, cannot.

My husband, (In the same breath I always add, “The LA City Fire Chief” mainly just to ensure and “up” my readership), can get plowed down by a Luc Whyte look-a-like at the Ice Station with an ankle going on three months to heal, can get detailed for fire department projects when he’s supposed to be spending his days off finding a contractor to do our yard instead of a back hoe and two day laborers “sometime next summer” and, finally, can attend lengthy fire department retirement dinners and always remain “cool”.

It’s the “cool” part I’m having trouble with.  Sure mini-Luc had a black eye when I saw him at our next weekly visit, courtesy of the Chief.  (I cannot figure how it may have occurred.  I mean they weren’t playing hockey together, just maneuvering around one of the three ponds and I had only seen legs entangled not fists.)  The project does appear to be manageable with the help of a few other chiefs from different cities.  And even the retirement dinners are fun when the old stories are told above a whisper into a microphone.  But not the one I overheard at the table next to me that made me sweat.

“I can’t take HRT’s (hormone replacement therapy for those of you under 35 or male) and the sweats are just terrible”.  Well, since my own dear mother had estrogen-based breast cancer I have been told to stave off as well, so, being the Eve of Destruction I immediately bulldozed my way into the conversation.

“I’m getting prepared for menopause and I can’t take HRT’s either.”  After a few more minutes I was to learn this woman had same problem as my mom did.  Other medications, even holistic ones touted by Suzanne Somers that “mimic” HRT’s also promote or progress estrogen, which in turn would promote cancer cells.  “So how bad is it without the HRT’s ?”

This was when her husband, proving he was the one affiliated with the fire department, broke in.  “Let me tell you how bad it is.  I came home one day, found her in the kitchen, mind you the coolest room in the house with the tile floors, with the sweat just dripping off of HER BEARD!”

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.  Another fireman joke you think?  I don’t even want to know.

So far so good, but?  A new diamond ring Ed got me two birthdays ago that I wear on my right hand ring finger has caused, or triggered, an allergic reaction on my left hand where I wear my wedding ring.  Is it because the new diamond is bigger and wants to go on the appropriate hand?  Is it because I want to show it off on the appropriate hand?  Or is it the beginning of chemical changes in my body that could be worse?  Like the hand will start growing thick tufts of hair on my formerly naked knuckles?

Then, one last thing, my lovely little girl is about to be nine.  With me at 45 I got it figured—Yep, you sly Signal readers can guess it—that we will be hitting the hormonal highway at the same time.  Ed is going to sign up for “SOD”, Signed up for Duty, on every day off from her eleventh birthday on I bet.  Chief “Cool” is what I think is the plan.  But for us?  I’ve got it figured that I’ll have to learn to use an electric razor in the car because she’ll have started shaving by then at home with a pretty little pink one, maybe with Hilary Duff’s caricature boldly decaled on one side.  Won’t she be adorable?  She’ll be blooming while my petals will be fading, not before they start dripping with too much DEW and clumps of peach fuzz!  Isn’t Mother Nature wonderful?

So I think it may be a good idea to have Ed remove all sharp objects from our home.  He better take them with him to work.  Undoubtedly where all husbands go to “cool” off and shave with other testosterone driven men.


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