If It’s Soft It’s Fat, If It’s Hard It’s That.

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That was my Grandmother’s way of diagnosing pregnancy; poke yourself in the stomach and if it jiggles, it’s fat, and if it’s hard then it’s “that”. I think she thought this was genuinely useful information for a sexually active woman. She had all sorts of other useful medical tips, like, red flannel (must be red) around the throat cures a sore throat, and break fast (pronounced as two words) spittle will cure warts. But there’s more than “fat” and “that” that can jiggle on your tummy.  Continue reading

Slow Muscle

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When I was diagnosed with the Big C (I actually have a problem typing “Cancer”, so I’ll use this euphemism), it was a tremendous blow to my self esteem and confidence. All my life I’d tried to be fit and eat the right things, the things that are associated with low cancer risk, and it all seemed to have been for nought. The woman in the mirror had a chubby face, no eyebrows, and an important part of her sexual identity was missing. Every morning, where I had once rolled and leapt out of bed, I now hobbled and I began to say to myself, “Take it easy. You won’t win the Olympics now, you’re old.” and so I became old.

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You Say Menoxi, I Say Tamoxi.

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Lately, I’ve been reading about tamoxi-rage. That’s me I thought. All these women saying they want to punch someone in the face, that’s how I feel, but at the bottom of one blog post was a comment along the lines of “I feel like that all the time. I’m menopausal but I’m not on tamoxifen.” A quick google of “menopausal rage” showed the world is full of 50-something women who just want to punch someone in the face, tamoxifen or not. Continue reading