I think it's hereditary--for as long as I can remember, I've always taken a magazine, newspaper or book into the bathroom whenever I feel a "movement" coming on, just as my dear departed father did. A co-worker who has since retired always noticed my tucking my folded newspaper under my arm and loudly inquired, "Dumpsky?" I always fired back, "Shut up!"

Hey, who wants the entire office to know where you're going and for what purpose?

Then again, pooping is a natural function, so what's the big deal?

But, whenever I go to the bathroom to change my tampon, I slide it into a pocket or clasp it tightly, discretely, in my hand. No one needs to know ALL my business, right?

A friend is somewhat embarrassed at my "let it all hang out" blogging. I've never been much of a one to hide embarrassing things that happen to me. A few years ago, I used to exercise in the main hallway of my building, where I work now. Unbeknownst to me, the back seam of my pants had split, revealing pretty much all of my underpants and backs of my thighs to anyone passing. (How I didn't feel a draft and no one let me know of my exposure puzzles me to this day, but there you have it). When the same guy who used to inquire, "Dumpsky?" finally, gasping, informed me that I was exposing my hindquarters to the entire world, I felt my face flame with mortification. I asked someone for a needle and thread, went to the ladies' room and sewed up my torn-up pants.



I'm also the gal who, at 12, when I was already sporting a 36B set of boobs, began undressing for swim--unaware that a group of 12-year-old boys was still in the room. They got an eyeful of my hefty tit-set while the other girls in my group laughed uproariously at my embarrassment. I bet those boys had plenty of questions for their parents when they got home--and the girls were jealous as hell!

We're due to get a blizzard today. As a kid, I loved snow, but as a grownup, I hate it. Driving in it scares me, but I'm definitely returning to work Monday. Brad took his father's car to go upstate to Binghamton to visit his girlfriend (his is still in the shop awaiting repair, a full week now), so I have to worry about him returning safely home tomorrow in all this snow. If worrying prevents shingles from going away, I guess I'll have them forever!

Don't hurt yourselves shoveling, if that's what you have to do. And if you're reading this from warm climes, send a little our way, OK? Thanks so much!

Love, Robin

My husband is the sworn enemy of all toilets. When we leave my in-laws' home in San Diego, their toilets party. When we depart the upstate resort in Round Top, NY, where we often go to get away from it all, the toilets there whoop and holler with glee. And when we go away from home, our toilets here sigh with relief and enjoy their days of respite from the concrete-like poop of Dan the Man, who prides himself on stuffing up septic systems wherever he goes.

It didn't used to matter much around here, until our downstairs toilet got a crack and we had to replace it with (GASP!!) a low-flow (or is that lo-flo?) toilet. They say these toilets save water, but I don't see how. When my husband takes a Vogeldump (pat. pending), he has to flush an average of 5-6 times to get the entire movement to go down.

When our toilet gets stuffed up, it generally takes the combined efforts of all three of us, huffing and puffing as we repeatedly use the plunger, to unstuff it. It reminds me of what they must do on those medical shows to revive a patient whose heart has stopped. "Give me 100 jewels!" Plunge! "It's not working! "Give me 200 jewels!" Plunge, plunge! "Still stuffed up! Damn it, give me 300 jewels!" Plungeplungeplunge! "It went down, we got it, it's back!" And it's good until another Vogeldump (pat. pending).

"Dan," I yell, "I keep telling you, do your shitting upstairs! That's still a regular toilet and can take your insane pooping!"

"I can't make it upstairs," he insists.

But I know different. He just wants to stuff up the toilet. It's a challenge to him.

Recently, although he refused to admit he'd done it, he stuffed up the downstairs toilet but good. No amount of plunging would restore the patient.

Dan tried using an ancient snake his father had left behind, and promptly dropped the butterfly release screw into the toilet. It took me about two hours to retrieve that screw, and I, not very happily, had my bare hands in that icy water, cursing Dan under my breath.

We went to the hardware store and bought a new plunger and a new snake. We used both on the toilet, and while the situation improved, it's still not working with the same force it was before.

Dan brags that he and his male co-workers have made an enemy of the custodial staff in his building because they have contests to see who can stuff up/stench up the bathroom there the most.

Oh, yeah, that's another thing--I cannot use either bathroom in my home after my husband or son has been in there. What's with men, anyway? Why do they take such pride in disgusting bathroom activities?

Love, Robin

I generally enjoy having the house to myself. I catch up on my videotapes of shows that are on when I'm watching other shows, clean up a bit, play with Bugsy and Snapple, my dogs.

Having shingles has robbed me of my usual energy, and it's much easier to just loll around and stare at the wreckage of my home. I went out for dinner with my husband last night to a local restaurant featuring two-fer Tuesday--two dinners for the price of the higher. My husband always gets flank steak, but I prefer to try something different each time. I ordered what I thought would be pasta and chicken in a tomato sauce, but it turned out to be white cream sauce instead. It was OK, but I'm trying to keep away from fatty food, especially since I've had to delete my regular walk since the diagnosis. I'm limping badly, especially when I first rise from a seated position, and it feels as if I have arthritis in my hip.

The restaurant, Sidekicks, serves a nice, healthy salad and delicious, crusty bread. I prefer their vinaigrette dressing. They renovated the place recently, and it looks very airy and pretty. Smoking is banned, so all tables are non-smoking.

SIDEBAR: There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that smoking causes cancer. It may take years, but eventually, it will happen. My dear mother died at the age of 60 of a heart attack, but the day we found her dead in bed, her doctor called and informed us that her biopsy of the previous day revealed that she had small cell carcinoma in her lung and would have died anyway, and painfully. HER mother, another chain smoker, died at the age of 84, and she also had lung cancer. My father, also a heavy smoker, died of a stroke at age 53. My uncle died at age 27 of leukemia. My aunt, Mom's sister, had a breast removed. She continues to smoke. My grandfather, Mom's father, a smoker, died of cancer. I have NEVER smoked, but have breathed in God knows how much second-hand shit over the years. Anyone who smokes and does NOT die of cancer has lucky genes or is just plain fortunate. I'm shouting this: SMOKING CAUSES CANCER!

So, I'm home alone. I slowly, painfully walked door to door, handing out American Diabetes envelopes to my neighbors (I volunteer for this thankless task every year), asking for money to fund research so my son, husband, mother-in-law, father-in -law, me, and the millions of other diabetics out there might someday be free of this horrible illness. I've done this before, and I know these people--they are NOT givers and not generous. When, after the first depressing year, I called the ADA and said that I felt terrible because of poor response, she assured me that payout really wasn't the point--we inform them of the signs of diabetes to look for, so this is more about education than begging for money (yet they always have a "goal amount" they want us to send; this year it's $50). Still, I make sure I hand-write on the paperwork, "Please help--five members of my family suffer from this disease," yet they still give nothing. That hurts. Which is another reason I love animals more than people!

I also went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few items we needs--yogurt, low-sugar chocolate pudding, baked chips, dog food, 100 calorie packs. I know, I'm supposed to be resting, and if anyone from work spotted me, I'd probably get in trouble. After all, I'm claiming to be sick, right? Trouble is, I am returning to work Monday no matter what, and I have to get my body used to being up and around again. I can't just slush around all day here at home, then go to work Monday and expect to be able to sit up all those hours, walk back and forth to the Dispatch Office and do my job the way I did before contracting shingles. No, I need to build myself back up to that right here at home, slowly getting my aching body used to it again. So I'm going down to the basement to run some laundry.

I was thinking today how depressing it is to be 52 and deteriorating this quickly, this early. I wonder--will I leave this world when my father did--at 53? When Mom did, at 60? Or will I make it to my Nana's ripe age of 84? It's ironic, really--I didn't smoke, but I'm still not doing all that well, health-wise, am I?

Love, Rob8in

Last year, I didn't use one day of sick leave. For most postal employees, that's quite a feat. However, I work Tour 2, or the day shift, which makes life easier. If you work Tour 1, or the graveyard shift, your body clock is so mixed up, you inevitably end up using sick leave even when not sick. Tour 3, which runs from 3-11:30 PM, are still hours during which you're likely to be awake, and somewhat more normal than the 11 PM-7:30 AM hours encompassing Tour 1. What I'm trying to say is, no matter what tour they're on, most postal employees I know take sick leave whether they're sick or not, simply because we get 13 days of sick leave per year and they usually get pissed off enough at their co-workers and/or supervisors to get revenge in the form of using it.

Not me. My conscience usually forces me to take sick leave only when I'm really sick. Must be something my parents drummed into me. I remember walking to work long distances during snowstorms because I felt so obligated to be there. I figure it this way--if they're going to pay me, I owe it to them to get to work, no matter what. During my three-month postal probation, I showed up to work with strep throat and a fever of 104 degrees. Don't ask me how, but I remember performing my job with my head down on my desk, forcing myself to apply labels to envelopes with one eye open and contagious drool spilling from my mouth.

So, I saw my own doctor yesterday and she extended my shingles note to the rest of this week. Which means I went from using zero sick leave last year to six days, two hours of sick leave in 2006 and it's only February! I feel guilty, even though it's completely legit. When I dropped my pants for my PCP yesterday, she said, "You've got it, all right, and it's bad. I see some new lesions forming." "Wondrous," I said, "just freaking wondrous." This can take weeks, even months, to completely go away. Does the news get any better than that? So my ETA back to work now is 2/13/06. I sure hope I can sit on my ass by then, without feeling like I'm sitting on a bunch of angry bees.

Well, I have over 1600 hours of sick leave banked. I guess this is why I held onto them. As you get older, you deteriorate and need them more. I'm still the same woman who would WANT to walk to work in a big snowstorm. The heart is willing, but oh, baby, the flesh is weak.

Love, Robin

. . .but I sure know money when I see it! I bought a $20 box in my husband's Superbowl pool because it was the polite thing to do. When your husband asks you to buy a box to help him out, you do it--as long as he's not talking about a hooker.

I love baseball, especially the Mets (and I know, you really have to be a diehard to love 'em, but I'm stubbornly loyal and that's fodder for another entry), but haven't a clue about football, and my husband is of the same mind. So when we watched the ending moments of each quarter of last night's Superbowl game, I kept yammering, "Was that a point? Did he do something good? What constitutes a point in this game???" My husband was as in the dark (read: dumb) as I was, and the only thing that told us anything was when the score on the bottom of the screen actually changed.

At the end of the half, the score was 3/7 (my numbers on the game sheet), with Pittsburgh in the lead. My dear departed father had lived in Pittsburgh with his second family after divorcing my mother and was an avid fan of all their sports teams, so I put my hands together and beseeched, "Daddy, come on, let me win the $500, PLEASE!!!" I watched, breathless, as the seconds counted down and the players ran around the field, doing things with the ball. "Let the score stay the same, Daddy!" I cried. When the timer stood at two seconds, the phone rang. It was Brad, who, his car in the body shop for repair, had gotten a ride to a friend's house "Mom, you just won five hundred dollars," he announced, delighted. "But there's two seconds left!" I protested. "No, it's over," he assured me. I watched the two seconds count down to zero and the score stayed the same. Dan and I hugged, elated, jumping around as much as my hurting ass allowed. He handed me the envelope with the cash. "I'm sharing it with both of you," I promised. "And I'm treating my office to lunch as soon as I get back there." I was also thrilled for a fellow postal co-worker, who had won $250 at the end of the first quarter.

That's life's juxtapositions for you. Last Thursday, I was told I had shingles. Friday, Brad was in a car accident. Last night, I won $500. You never know what each day is going to bring. Now, can I make a deal? I'll give $250 to go back in time and prevent Brad's car accident, and $250 to go back in time and stop whatever gave me shingles. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could make such trade-offs? Too bad we can't.

Yesterday Dan and I were invited to a meal with a dear friend of ours. We've known her for many years. She and her husband used to live across the street from us, but they separated years ago. He bought a home in upstate New York, and she lives a couple of miles away from us. When she moved into her new apartment a few months ago on a very rainy, miserable Saturday, we helped her schlep her stuff back and forth all day long. Her children weren't available to help, for various reasons, and Dan and I were pretty much it, besides the moving men. She promised us a meal to thank us, but, between work and family obligations, it took more than two months before she found the time to
keep her promise.

Nobody makes tomato sauce like she does. Sausage, meatballs, pasta, bread, salad--a feast for an Italian food lover like me. We ate at a folding table, in fold-out metal chairs, and talked, laughed, and enjoyed each other's company. I didn't tell her about my shingles, because knowing her as well as I do, she would have insisted I leave, even if I assured her I wasn't contagious. I know her that well, you see, and she simply wouldn't have allowed me to stay if she knew. I love her, but she is stubborn in some beliefs and I know my mentioning it would have caused problems. So when I moaned or groaned in pain, I just said it was because of my bad back. She's already familiar with that, and my back ALWAYS hurts, so it wasn't totally a lie. (By the way, I had back surgery for two slipped discs when I was 20 years old, another tale for another day.)

My butt is bothering me. It's weird--the pimples/lesions/whatever- they-are on my left butt cheek seem to be fading, but I still feel a lot of pain underneath where they used to be. I don't get it--unless that's the nerve pain I've been reading about. It's like what's on the surface is fading, but what's beneath the rash still hurts like a bastard. This is NOT fun!

Love, Robin