I am an expert on the subject of hormones, having had raging, out of control hormones for many years. This was mostly nipped in the bud the day I had my hysterectomy a little over seven years ago or as it's known around here, The Day Momma Got Her Happy On. I spent many, many years searching for the right combination of herbs or drugs or whatever it takes to quell the hormonal beast within and, truly, never found anything that really worked. I once told a doctor that if she didn't immediately prescribe something good for me, I was going to drive straight over to the nearest high school, stand on the corner and score something good for myself. She did not laugh ... of course, I really wasn't trying to be funny!
At the height of my hormonal hell, the revolving front door had been in operation and we had living with us {again} our oldest daughter, granddaughter, youngest daughter, her two cats and our two dogs. It was a freakin' zoo. And as wonderful as they all are, when Mom's in the house, it is expected that she will do most of the cooking, cleaning and heavy lifting. Okay, I didn't really do any heavy lifting - Hubby did that - but I liked the way it sounded.
One day a few months before my scheduled surgery, YD announced that she was going to look for her own apartment. Chances are good, she wasn't enjoying my constant snarling. Her comment triggered that switch in my brain that brings on a rampage and I suggested OD do the same. I basically told everybody to get the hell out. Now I'm guessing that that Mom of the Year trophy is never coming. OD then snarled at YD, "Thanks a lot!" She was assuming that she and the granddaughter would have more room to spread out once YD and the cats left the building. Wrong! I was ready for some peace and quiet.
And I got it. They all found cute apartments about a mile away, so still close enough for friendly visits ... but gone. When I had the surgery, I was told to stay in bed for a week. And I so took advantage of that. Every time I woke up, Hubby fed me another pain pill and I went back to sleep. He unplugged the phone and told everybody to leave me alone so I could rest. When I finally crawled back out into the land of the living, I played the messages on our answering machine. YD had left several that sounded like this: "Mom ... Mom ... did you die? Dad won't let us talk to you or see you or anything. Mom???" It was absolute heaven. The doctor suggested a 6-week recovery. I bounced up with more energy than I'd had -- maybe ever -- and was back to work in less than 3 weeks. Feeling marvelous! Happy! Hormone free!
So I see these ads for organic, free range, 100% hormone free chickens and I worry. I worry about all the chickens out there on the chicken ranch with hormones. Raging hormones. Can you imagine all those hormone crazed chickens pecking each other? God! What a nightmare!!! I'll bet the roosters are a twitchy, psychotic mess, sleeping with one eye open and looking over their shoulders as they go about their roosterly duties. Gives a whole new meaning to the term hen-pecked, doesn't it?
As I take another pull on my Mike's, I will leave you with a joke. This, historically, is the first off-color joke Hubby ever told his parents at the ripe young age of 8 or so.
How do you make a hormone?
Don't pay her! ;-D
