Never lose anything in your muff, again!

 

Now that we are at the heights of Muff Season, be careful when you put in your muff.  

Tis' a tragedy as old as time itself that someone shoves something into their muff only to lose track of it, or worse loses it in there.  Why an old muff, which has become loose with age and wear, things can simply fall out if you are careful. But using the suggested trick will keep everything small accounted for. 

And it's essential that you use that muff of yours.  In cold weather, if you can. (You muff enjoys being cold, in fact!)

And remember, never let a man into your muff in public.  Your reputation may suffer from whispers about your ease with familiarities.  People will talk. 

1983 to 2023

 

Not Cookie. But, oh, what fun we had in your youth

On January 21, 1983, I came out to myself.  And over the next many months, to every one else.

It was a long process. Oh, I had long been having sex with men, lusting after them, and dreaming about men.  Why, when I was five, watching the original Batman on TV, I kept hoping that Adam West's costume would rip open.  I had no idea, but it made me feel all warm inside. 

But on that night in 1983, I understood that gay men really were humans and not just people driven by sex. 

That was the night that the light (Disco Ball, if you will) went off in my head and I realized that they had lived like everyone else, had hobbies and interests like everyone else, played cards, laughed at movies, and were concerned about their futures.  And at the climax of the night, they could hold each other after sex, sex that was good, satisfying, and felt natural. 

I know that may sound odd but back then, society still treated you like a joke, as something less than, nothing more than a punch line on a TV, or doomed to a life of fulfillment, and worse still, someone people really rejected. 

And I also came to understand that the older generation in 1983 had had it far worse than what I thought was our current situation.  Those who came before us had it much worse when it came to law and to relationships with their families. 

In 1983, I never thought that I could one day marry a man and be happy.  In 1983 I thought we had to be content with calling our other half my lover, a term that connoted only sex. 

One by one, the people who knew me told me they knew all about it, and for a long time.  My mother kicked me out of the house but came around once I showed some backbone.  My father never came around, which is no surprise, because he was unable to admit he was ever wrong about anything.  His loss, not mine.

What a difference 40 years makes in many ways.  I am now happily married to a man I have been with for decades, someone who is my very best friend and someone I thought would have rejected me in 1983.  On the contrary, he was in his own closet trying to keep his head down, and not be identified. 

We all make different journeys.

Now Cookie is the older generation.  And sometimes it feels damn lonely here. If the joke is Gay Life ends at thirty, try sixty.  I always deferred to my gay elders, but I really feel that younger gay men have become so callous as to see us as their brethren. 

I have been called "Troll" "dead man walking" and "Boomer". I have always found safety in the company of men who are older, but here I am with at best maybe 20 years left.   My friends are varied, but younger gay men forget that people like me pushed and pushed hard to be able to be out at work, that we pushed and pushed hard to open up housing, employment, and yes, minds.  Just as the older generation did, and grateful I have always been, for the guys of my era.

To those who mock me, my answer is always the same: "If you are lucky, you'll make it to my age. And that's a big "If".

And I think of all the men stuck down by AIDS when there were no cures, just death. 

Still, I worry about the next ten, twenty, and thirty years.

Will my marriage be invalidated?  Will our health insurance be cut off because we aren't a straight family? Will we be hunted down, and forced to separate for our own safety?  Because there are certainly enough angry people who see the LGBTQ+ community as the easiest target that can find.  Without a boogie man, they have no platforms. Without hate, they have no power.  That scares Cookie.  

I hope not.  I hope we grow old into our dotage. And before taking that final step into an afterlife, if one exists, there isn't much of a wait for the other to join the first to go. 

But the one thing that remains constant is that we will remain at war with society until they give up trying to make us into something less than they are. We have to keep pushing, keep making our voices heard and our rights guarded, and we need to keep pushing. 

We have to remember that being enough isn't just enough, but that our rights matter, we will not be pushed, and shoved around.  We will strike back, and our allies need to know that we love them, and we'll support them as they support us. 

Nothing won is ever safe. Life is full of struggle.  My Ancestors taught me that. 

Still, what an amazing forty years it's been.

Moving About, A Cookie Surgical Update

Time for my final post-surgical update. 

Well, since having the dreaded Catheter removed, my mood, pain and overall recovery have all accelerated.  Still a bit sore and such, but I can move about, run the vacuum, fold laundry, and drive. 

Yesterday poor husband had to put up with me as we ran three BIG errands, with only pee break, which is a good day, all things considered.

I spoke with the spouse of a neighbor who went through this - and she is a former nurse, and she said that she was really happy with my milestones, but again, urged me not to do too much too soon. 

This is a problem for people recovering from surgery.  Fifty years ago, I would have been fileted stem to stern, spent a week in the hospital, and then released to mostly rest at home, then been told to introduce light activities. 

Today, you go in, have the surgery, and get taken to your hospital room where I spent 30 hours, during which I had to get up and walk the halls of the hospital four times.  Then they released me. Coming home, it was more of the same, up and moving, a nap, more walking, etc. By the third day out, I was walking around the block.  I got tired, but they wanted to walk so I did. Followed by a nap. 

But they keep saying don't do too much. 

OK, but how much is too much?

On that point, they get a little fuzzy.  They want you to do a little more than you did the time before if you feel up to it. 

"Just keep moving, but don't push yourself too far."

It seems a game of platitudes tempered by nebulous warnings. You want A, but not too much A.  How will I know. You'll know.

Anyhow, I stay busy, doing stairs, walking and walking, standing and standing, and when I get tired, I relax and nap out. 

Still, my twisting days are still away, and joke that I told the surgeon.  If you know about surgeons, they are a different breed of human. Often times distant, most of the time detached. So when I said the twist comment the surgeon looked at me and said:

"You don't want to do too much, too soon, but you also have to get up and move. I would avoid twisting until you feel up to it."

You can't win for trying. 

Someone has their flabby teats in the wringer

 Name the member of Congress in this picture:

Said member of Congress vehemently denies that it is them.

So let's do the layover image between a campaign picture and the one above:

Clearer, yet?

How's this?

Let's see how many Tea Party trolls protest Miss Thang over her sordid past. 

Hopeful news, but not cured, yet.

Cautious Optimism Could Be Called For

Well, we have hopeful news from the lab tests and dissections:

1) They got all the known, evident cancer.

2) The margins (extra) they took were clear.

3) The lymph nodes on both sides that they took were clear as well.

HOWEVER

4) The lab found evidence that microscopic bits of the cancer were found on the outside of the prostate. 

What does this mean?

We are not out of the woods, totally, yet.  And I don't want to go dancing in the streets until I know more. 

I have always viewed cancer as a chronic disease, not always immediately cured by surgery, chemo, or radiation.  We have all heard the phrase "The Cancer is back..." and usually that's bad. 

Really bad. 

Cookie says you can be happy with the first three bits, and by all means, strip into your natural state, grab a tambourine, and dance in the street if you are so inclined.  Fly that Cookie Freak Flag! Enjoy this moment.  But the other - well, that is what the follow-up brings. 

What happens next? 

Well, for the short-term future, people undergoing this surgery have additional PSA tests, and if the numbers are good to improving, well good.  And if the numbers are really good for a period of time, that might be a signal of a real cure. 

But, if the numbers aren't where they should be, or are trending down and then up, that would be another PMSA Scan (where they shoot you full of a radioactive isotope that targets the PSA in your body and see where it is active) that could lead to radiation, Chemotherapy, and additional surgeries.  Now the last PMSA scan said it was just in the prostate, but that was in August. So I am hopeful that we're still in that bubble as no microscopic cancer cells showed up in the margins. 

IN OTHER NEWS, the Catheter was removed, so no more bag! Sweet Jesus, what a freaking relief. 

My next goal, aside from passing the PSA test, is to sleep on my sides again without pain.  In a couple weeks, we should be there. 

Recovering, covering up, and "It's in the bag, man."

Hello My Pretties,

This is Cookie, who is now one week and a day out from my cancer surgery.  I am here to tell you that all things considered, I am healing and feeling pretty fine. 

Last Monday was the operation and I must tell you, it was rough.  Well, it could have been a whole lot worse. They were able to use the DaVinci robot to cut out the involved prostate and reattach the pee pipe to the bladder - there was a chance that wouldn't happen because of previous abdominal scarring.  

The Cancer (because Cookie has lived in central and Southern, Ohio - we have to use the article in front of the disease noun - as in The Cancer, The Sugar, etc., and of course, et. al.) and some lymph nodes were sent to the lab, we get those results tomorrow.  

I was glued up, a drain inserted and stitched into place, brought to, and remarkably had no sore throat from the anesthesia tube.  I guess it was forty years of practice that paid off.  What hurt like Hell was the trunk of my body.  

Dear God!  

The pain from the CO2 that they fill you up with was excruciating.  I felt like Mr. Tropogrosso!

The worst of the worst is the exterior plumbing. Because they have to attach the pee tube back to the bladder, you have to have a catheter (NOT a Sureflo unit, and I did not have a buttocks drape either) and an external collection bag. They don't want the bladder to spasm, and they don't want the bladder to blow up with urine like a water balloon, yet.  So I have spent a week with three feet of tubing attached to the collection vessel (the bag).

The catheter itself is rubber and has a small balloon inflated in the bladder to keep it from pulling out.  It's not comfortable.  The figurative "pain in the ass" is the tube that connects the catheter to the bag.  The plastic tubing has a mind of its own.  It keeps wanting to twist and coil back into its original shape.  

Verily, it will not be denied. 

In the hospital, it was no problem, because you have people to help you deal with it, and IV poles for the bags of fluids, and you can hang it from when you have to walk the halls.  And yes, I was up walking the halls within three hours of the surgery.  But the tubing isn't a problem. because it's attached to the pole, which is on wheels, and around you go.  

But at home? No pole.  

This makes wearing pants next to impossible.  So I have spent the week in my husband's boxers while I sit around the house.  But because I need to walk up and down the street, that means stuffing said bag and non-compliant tubing into the large of some baggy pants.   And that makes for a look that gets second looks from people driving by or neighbors out for their walks. 

Add all of this up and you can't sleep well.  You are propped up on your back at odd angles.

My diet is pretty limited - soft food and semi-soft food. So lots of soups. Chicken soup is going in and out by the gallons because it's nourishing and surprisingly restorative.  I was able to have a crab cake because this is Maryland and crab cakes are our official food of choice, and a God-given right. 

But now the neighbors are sending food, and I am grateful, but they are sending gallons of Chicken soup.  I keep telling myself: soup is a meal and a liquid...soup is a food and a liquid...hydration is good...

I should start clucking soon. 

Soon, the catheter and I will part company, and we'll get the lab results.  I could pull it out at home, said the doctor.  And I replied "I couldn't but I won't."  I have had a catheter removed about eight years ago, and it wasn't something I was prepared for and I am glad of that.  So no, Dr. Surgeon is removing that clown car. 

The good news would be no spread, nothing in the margins, and nothing in the lymph system.  That means that I will have quarterly PSA tests (blood work), and that will reduce over the next five years.   The bad news is something in the margins, or something in the lymph system, which could mean radiation and chemo. 

Either way, you may not hear from me for a week or so because, and frankly, I am exhausted. 

Now all of you men out there, go to your doctor and get a PSA test. Seriously.  All of the above was but a minor nuisance compared to how this could have gone had I ignored the problem.  And I was that lucky because I insisted on them doing the damned test.   I watched my uncle die from this cancer as it spread through his body at 65, and I am determined that will not be me.  Oh, something will get us all one day, but it won't be prostate cancer.   

So don't let it happen to you.  Better to battle a bag for a week to ten days than to end up on a morphine drip headed into eternity. 

Our New Years Party

Well, we threw a humdinger last night!

The Mistress said she wanted proof.  

...and, here it is!

A light menu, nothing fancy, has been selected. 

But first, Hors d' Oeuvres are being enjoyed.

The polite guests have been seated. 

Our bartender is offering a full-service menu. 

Oh, dear. Who let Muriel into the basement where the bubbly was being stored?

Our main entertainment was a smash.

When it got within a second of Midnight, Mrs. Potts gave the word!

The New Year was announced!

Who let Perimenopausal Pauline in?  

Get her out before she brings us all down. 

And with some help from Xavier Cugat, we formed a Conga Line.

 

Whew, that was fun. 

The orgy is next door and Fawn and Fred's. 

(The scene at Fawn and Fred's as the couples started to pair themselves.)

I did not book this band, that's for damned sure. 

Meanwhile, in the Garage, the second half of the night is underway. 

And by 4am, Vonda was turning our knotty pine basement into the Naughty Basement.

But in the end...

Everyone was able to get home, happy and exhausted, but mostly many will have to sleep it off.