As A Matter Of Fact, I Don't Want To Know

Here's a suggestion to all of my well-meaning relatives and friends: When I tell you I've scheduled a colonoscopy, please do not regale me with tales of every person you know who had their colons perforated during the procedure.
Over the past six years, I've had two colonoscopies, both problem free, thank you very much. Aside from the grueling prep the night before, once the twilight-sleep was administered, I didn't feel a thing. And the best part, my colon was (and still is, hopefully) cancer and polyp free. My maternal grandmother and uncle both had colon cancer so I don't take any chances. A healthy colon is a happy colon.
As suggested by my doctor, now that I'm over fifty and because of the family history, I get a colonoscopy every five years. Why do the people in my life insist on delving headfirst into the annals of alledged medical mishaps? They share stories of their great aunt's daughter's next door neighbor who had their first colonoscopy ever and ended up in the intensive care unit after the doctor sneezed, twitched, passed out, or just plain screwed up a routine health screening.
I don't want to hear it, but that doesn't stop them.
"Oh wow, you're getting a colonoscopy?" my neighbor asked. "My co-worker had one last month and her husband had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died."
"Really? Well thanks for sharing," I said. "I'm sure it was a fluke."
First of all, as reasonable people, we should all understand that simply getting up and out of bed each morning comes along with risks. Nothing is risk free, not even a colonoscopy, but the odds are usually in the favor of the person on the table with a probe up their tushy.
I have no proof, but it wouldn't shock me if the female contingency who share this information do the same with new moms-to-be, dredging up every delivery room horror story from the past several centuries and reciting it like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Who doesn't want to hear about potential tragedy and botched episiotomies days before giving birth?
The other day, a card from my doctor was in the mail, reminding me it was time for another colonoscopy.
I'll tell everyone about it when it's OVER!

If You Don't Want My Opinion, Don't Ask

After my first marriage failed, in my early twenties, I moved back home with my parents for a spell, a sadder but wiser woman.
As I worked to get my life together, it became very apparent that my mom and dad were dealing with their own marital issues. Nothing scandalous, no infidelities or domestic abuse. My dad's business was sinking fast and he was frantic to find ways to avoid bankruptcy. My father was grouchy and short-tempered and vented his frustrations on my poor mom. It took a toll on their marriage.
For whatever reason, my mother asked me if I would talk to my father, act as a quasi-relationship counselor.
He was neither moved nor impresed.
"You of all people have no business giving anyone marriage advice," he said.
He had a point. He was the man who had forked over thousands and thousands of dollars to pay for my wedded bliss, a fiasco that lasted two years.
I decided from that point on, I would never again give unsolicited advice. However, the solicited advice would still prove to be my undoing.
Here's an ongoing example or two:
I have a friend...let's call her Sally. Sally is a lovely human being, a gifted artist with a lovely laugh. She's also about 100 pounds overweight and aside from talking about the need to lose weight, she's never made the effort to actually do so. But everytime we get together, she never fails to ask me:
"Do you think I'm fat?"
Typically, I would avoid answering this question like I'd avoid a rectal exam (relax, I get one every time I see my OB/GYN) but at some point I decided why not be honest.
Sally: "Do you think I'm fat?"
Me: "You know, for your own health and well-being, and the fact that I want you around for a long time, yes...I think you need to lose some weight."
Sally:"Hmm, I really don't think I'm that bad."
I could only watch in awe as she sat back and continued to shovel the spaghetti carbonara into her mouth.
Now when she asks, I merely reply: "You're perfect, I wouldn't change a thing."

And then there's "Lola." When the whole online dating scene first emerged, Lola was one of the trailblazers. Talk about being a kid in a candy store, her dating calender was booked for weeks. I was happy for her, of course, but a little sad because my own time with her was so limited. I missed our regular afternoon happy hours which typically segued into the dinner hours. But I was remarried by then with a child, and I wanted to see my friend end up with a nice guy even though the computerized matchups seemed a bit dubious in my mind. But what did I know?
One day, while she was several months into her quest for love, Lola came over for coffee, a little down and not her usual spunky self.
"Am I doing something wrong," she asked. "I can't get more than one or two dates out of any of the men I've met."
Despite the apprehension I felt churning in my lower bowels, I went ahead like an idiot and blurted,"tell me about a typical date."
"Well, I usually meet them for a drink or dinner. I've gone to a movie with a couple of them, and then usually we end up back at my place and...you know."
NO! NO! NO! I didn't want to know. I didn't want to dispense advice.  Was she the one woman in the world who was denied the maternal "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free" speech?

And now, let's move on to today. I made the mistake of checking my voice mail. It was "Gladys."
"Should I get a facelift? Call me when you get a chance."

I'm opening a bottle of chardonnay and calling it a day.

Just Like the Pilgrims Didn't Do It

Honestly, I had my Thanksgiving day plans set in stone weeks ago. It was going to be at my house, and I was finally going to have the chance to make the meal I wanted to make with recipes carefully picked from my favorite cooking magazines: Bon Appetit, Food and Wine, Cooking Light. The turkey would have been lovingly rubbed with the herbs and oils of my choice, and the sweet potatoes would have been in a casserole, the more butter and brown sugar, the better. For dessert, I would have had something involving pumpkin, but not pie.I hate pumpkin pie, and like I said, it would have been my Thanksgiving dinner.

The gameplan always looks good on paper, doesn't it?
As it now turns out, I have to work on Thanksgiving and most of the weekend that follows. My brother and his family normally make the ten hour drive to see us, but this year they have a new puppy and it's too young to leave behind or take along for the ride. Which is just as well since I really won't have much time to spend with them.
So this Thanksgiving, we'll be at M's house, my dear friend who I had originally invited to my home so she could have enjoyed a relaxing day.
"Don't worry, we'll keep it small and low-key," she reassured me, after I'd apologized several times for the agenda change. "When you're done with work, head on over."
As I've stated before, it always appears under control on paper.
The festivities now include eighteen people, two turkeys, and not enough dishes, chairs, or flatware. M tells me it will all be taken care of by the time the guests arrive tomorrow afternoon.
"What can I bring?" I asked. "Please let me do the sides or a dessert."  I felt terrible.  I'd completely shirked my hostess responsibilities and heaved the entire load on M.
"Bring wine," she said. "Lots of wine."
I called my favorite little wine shop earlier today. They're filling my order as I write this, loading up two dozen bottles of the perfect blends to accompany a Thanksgiving feast.
Maybe I can save those cooking magazines for Christmas...