Last night, Pawly (my elderly kitty), began racing back and forth along the back wall of my apartment.

“Well isn’t that cute,” I thought.  “She’s having a kitten moment.  The ole girl’s still got it.”  And then an internal alarm exploded in my brain.  Fear raced from my tailbone to the tippy top of my lifeless hair.

“Pawly doesn’t get bursts of energy at 10:22 p.m.,” my voice quivered.  “In fact, Pawly rarely peels her sweet, chunky little body from the white, wicker rocker in my bedroom.  Something is in this house.”

Pawly screeches to a halt, and stares obsessively at the curtain hiding the back door (don’t ask…it’s a weird set-up).  This isn’t a good sign.

“Pawly…sweetie,” I nervously coo.  “Whatcha got over there?”

She glances my way, an evil sparkle in her eye.

“Pawly?  What is it, girl?”  Bella joins her.  Their bodies are frozen…their heads whip from the doorway to the far corner…simultaneously…like furry fans at Wimbledon.  I repeat:  something is in this house.

(Musical aside) “Poppa?  Poppa can you hear me?”

I tip toe back to the couch, scanning the room for that which I do not want to find.  Nothing.  I sit down, prop both feet on the coffee table and attempt to focus on the news.  Then I scream at the top of my lungs…a blood-curdling cry…just before passing out.

When I come to, the horrible memory of a gigantic roach racing under my feet toward the entertaiment center replays in my mind.  I shake my head and calm my racing heart.  The girls are standing guard beneath the television…they’ve cornered the beast.

My first thought:  “I cannot see it…therefore, it does not exist.”

Follow-up thought:  “Boy - ain’t that the story of my life.”

Follow-up to follow-up thought:  “Think I gotta change that.”

And really…don’t we all?  How often do we cast aside our gut to keep the waters calm?  Think about it.  Really think about it.  How often do we ignore the obvious to save ourselves (temporarily) from heartache/disappointment/fear/failure?

“Was that annoyance in his voice…because I brushed my teeth the wrong way?  Nah.  He loves me.  He’s just tired.”

“So her eyes are bloodshot and her grades are dropping.  But my kid wouldn’t do drugs.”

 ”If I don’t go to the doctor, they can’t find anything. So it isn’t there.”

Boy, I bet you didn’t think I was gonna switch from roaches to deep thoughts.  Gotta keep you on your toes.  Us women (humans in general, really)…we’re complicated folks.  Laughing one minute.  Crying the next.  In love this year.  Bored the next.  There is no right answer.  There is no perfect path.  But I do believe, if we continue to grow…if we’re eventually honest with ourselves - about love and life, challenges and triumphs - we’ll end up on the right track…learning whatever it is we’re put here to learn.  And what is that?  Who knows.  But I can venture a guess.  It’s likely about connections, “moments”, love, acceptance…because those are the ingredients that make our lives a hearty, homey, memorable stew, aren’t they?

I’ve started to get my body healthy…my energy level has shot from a pathetic 20 to a bouncing-off-the-walls 200.  It’s tough to realize where you really were - how difficult and frustrating it was - until you’re climbing out of it, until you catch a glimpse of the other side.  But I’m starting to grasp it, and now all I want, all I can think of, is that I need to experience it all…everything.  But first…I’ve got to get real.  I’ve got to face the fact that, if I don’t approach life openly and honestly, I’m not (as Queen Oprah would say) living an “authentic life”.

So, no more ignoring the “signs”.  No more brushing snide comments under the rug…ignoring when the kiss seems different…pushing aside that internal voice booming “Wrong guy!  Wrong friend! Flippant career move!”  I’ve learned a lot over the years, and it’s time to put those lessons to good use.  Not just on occasion - when it’s convenient or easy…but everytime…every single time that internal voice yells “Danger” - I gotta buck it up, stand my ground and move on.

Whew!  That felt good!  Maybe I should become a motivational speaker.  But I don’t like being on stage.  See that!  It’s already working!  Flippant career move halted by listening to voice of reason.  Of course, there is something to be said for conquering fears…

Oh, Jesus…there’s the roach!  Oh, God!  Get it, Bella!  Get it, girl! (panic, heavy breathing, almost inaudible screech).  Struggling roach now back under entertainment center.  No longer exists.  Cannot see.  No longer exists.

Give a girl a break.  Change doesn’t happen overnight.

According to my recent test results, I have low progesterone…which basically means my hormones are so screwed up, there ain’t a lot of ovulation goin’ on up in there. 

“Does this mean I’m going into premature menopause,” I asked my new doctor, and then proceeded to throw up on her toy poodle. 

“No, no, no,” she replied.  “You’ll hit menopause when you hit menopause…this is just a hormonal imbalance…it’s all tied to your other issues…your thyroid, etc.”

I tucked my head between my legs, placed a paper bag over my mouth and breathed in and out…in and out.  “That’s good to know,” I finally gasped.  “I wasn’t quite ready for that.”  I grabbed some paper towels from the metal bin and attempted to wipe my stomach contents off the very confused pup cowering in the corner.

My new doctor (I’ll call her Doc She-Ra from this point forward…I expect great things) prescribed a natural Progesterone supplement and told me to take it days 14-28 of my “cycle”.  (I would apologize right now to my two or three male readers…but that would be premature…the real cringe-worthy content is still forthcoming.)

Doc She-Ra called in my prescriptions to the nearest “compound pharmacy”…a stand-alone building on Kirby, near the Rice Village area (a handy location for those prone to last-minute shopping excursions).  I arrived for pick-up mid-afternoon, gave the young lady behind the glass partition my name and lounged in a plush leather chair awaiting my new cocktail of drugs.  Look at these magazines!  Elle and People and Rolling Stone!  Not your standard waiting room periodicals.  I mean, there wasn’t a Highlights  or Diabetes Weekly  in sight.  This is my kind of dealer.  I scanned the room’s decor.  Very nice.  Nice, quality leather furniture…attractive, yet soothing paint color, nice framed…wait, what are those?  Prints of models?  Three professional pictures of a man, woman and child.  Black and white.  Tastefully done.  Must be an example of the “ultimate” customer…or possibly the perfection you turn into after purchasing this particular pharmacy’s goods.

“Miss Wynn?”  It was a male’s voice.  “We’ve got your prescriptions ready.  I’ll need to walk you through them.”

I looked from the portrait of models to…hold on…I’m confused…what is the model doing in this building…and why is he wearing a lab coat? 

“Miss Wynn?”  I need to speak soon or this is going to get awkward, but I’m a bit tongue-tied by the Adonis in white.

“Um…ha…sorry, yes,” I stutter as I walk to the window.  My massive purse falls to the bend in my arm, causing my whole body to jerk to the right.  I let out another nervous giggle.  What is going on?  Jesus…slap some metal braces on my teeth and plop me back into the halls of Kleb Intermediate…apparently I’m the “terrified yet intrigued by boys” thirteen-year-old again.  Pull it together!

I somehow survive the walk to the window and Pharmacist a la Perfecion begins to explain my new set of prescriptions.  I hear something about taking the thyroid medication on an empty stomach, first thing in the morning (got it…no different from the past) and then something about a cream.  A cream?  Why am I getting a cream?

As many would (or so I say to make myself feel better), I assumed the magic Progesterone supplement would come in pill form…but that assumption would prove to be incorrect.  As would the assumption that all pharmacists look like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Perfecion is still talking.  Oh, God, I’m missing crucial information.  Two clicks?  What?

“Can you repeat that last part, please,” I ask.

He smiles.  HE SMILES!  I blush and look down at my shirt.  Damn!  Why did I wear this ole thing…the color is awful on me!

Sidenote:  For those of you who know me well, you know I’m not easily rattled (or at least I can hide it well).  But we’re not talking “hot guy in the office” or “cutie at the grocery store” here…I’m talking a cross between Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.  I know it’s a weird combination and I know Tom is a little loopy…but those boys are HOT - and so is this one!

I need to focus.  FOCUS, NIKKI!  Your health is on the line here!

“…turn it two clicks..right down here, see?”

“Uh huh.”

“…once in the morning and once in the evening.  And, that’s it!  You’re set!”

But I don’t want to leave, Mommy.

“Right…ok,” I say as I inspect the cream dispenser.  And one thought keeps racing through my teenage brain…”where the hell do I apply this cream?”  My second thought:  “This is about female hormones…oh, God…what if if goes in my ‘hoo ha’…or on my nipples.  CAN’T THINK OF EROGENOUS ZONES WHILE IN PRESENCE OF PERFECION!!”  I do a quick visual inspection of the bottle…just dosage information…nothing about where to apply!  I can NOT ask this man…this specimen…if I put this cream up my “hoochie”!

“Okay…alright…so, don’t apply this until an hour or so after taking the thyroid meds?” I ask.

“That’s right,” he replies.  That mouth…mmmmm.  Focus!  “Just two clicks of the base here, rub it in, and you’re done.  It’s that easy.”

EASY?  EASY!!!!  RUB IT IN WHERE????  IN MY HOO HA…ON MY LEFT NIPPLE…UP THE BACK CRACK????  WHERE THE HELL DOES IT GO???

“Alrighty, then (did I just say that).  Sounds simple enough.  Thanks, again!”

“You bet!  Thanks for the business!”  And he winks.  Let me repeat that.  He winks.  Sigh.

Three hours later.  Parent’s house.  Back TV room with Mom.

“What do I do, Mom!  Does it go up my place?”

“It’s called a VAGINA, Nikki!  My, God!  You can’t even say it, can you?  Where did I go wrong!”

“No, I can’t say it…and I won’t!  And you didn’t answer me!  Where does this stuff go?”

“I don’t know!  But it does say ‘for external use only’…so I guess it doesn’t go up your ‘HOO HA’!”

“Then where?  My nipple?”

“Oh, Nikki!”

It’s late night and I’m surfing the net.  Key words:  “Where do you apply Progesterone cream?”

Answer: Not in ‘hoochie’ or up ‘butt crack’.  It appears the cream soaks in best in areas that blush:  chest, neck, face…and also the inside of arm.  Well, I wasn’t so far off…something tells me I was blushin’ in other areas when I was in the presence of Perfecion.

I call in the morning to confirm (and to hear his voice):  “Inside of your arm…on your wrist,” he says.

I ask him why he married before meeting me (but not out loud) and hang up the phone.  I then turned the prescription bottle two clicks and applied my first dose of Progesterone.  Bringing my levels up is supposed to increase my sex drive…filling my prescriptions through Perfecion appears to have increased it two-fold.  The actual cream may put me over the edge.  It’s time to go back to Vegas.  Like today.

I spent a good part of Sunday afternoon watching a marathon of the past season of “So You Think You Can Dance”.  Sad statement on my social life?  Not really…although I wasn’t necessarily flooded with other offers.  But after the craziness of last weekend, a severely lacking social calendar was exactly what I needed.

So I danced.  And by that I mean I watched other people dance and wished I were them.  Damn - they were amazing, and as I watched episode after episode after episode, my appreciation for their skill, athleticism, dedication and drive multiplied.

As you know, I’ve been battling with some health issues lately.  I did receive the test results back from my lovely home - blood and saliva - tests (remember that??? good times.)  As suspected, there are issues with my cortisol and other hormone levels, my free T3 is low (meaning the current medication I’m taking is essentially useless) and my thyroid antibodies are way out of whack.  I’m headed to a new doctor today to go over these results and start a new approach to treating all these lovely issues.  I’m told she (the actual doctor) is going to spend a WHOLE hour with me.  I’m not sure how to handle that.  I may cry.

Anyway, the point is, this health wake-up call may have a strange connection with dance.  How is that?  Well, according to my pharmacist (and most likely my doctor today) my chance for living a long, healthy life, rests almost squarely on my shoulders.  Yes, I will need some drugs and supplements…and when they get those right, they will likely make a significant difference, but it appears what I put in my body - nutritionally - will have just as much of an impact.  Looks like eating healthy will no longer be a short-lived guilt trip spurred on by an article in Shape magazine…it could turn my health around.  And I, for one, am ready to take it on.  In fact, in anticipation of today’s appointment, I spent the last week moving in that direction:  staying away from processed foods and refined sugars and carbs…and you know what?  I don’t think it’s just in my head…I’m pretty sure I feel better.  I have more energy.  I even ran a bunch of errands this weekend…with a slight skip in my step!  And my poop looked just like Dr. Oz said it should look (sorry - it did!)  And had you been a fly on my bedroom wall yesterday, you would have seen me rushing in at each “So You Think You Can Dance” commercial break, attempting to replicate a new dance move.  It may not have been pretty, but that’s the most energy I’ve had in months…maybe longer.  So, after this doctor’s appointment, when I’m armed with an hour’s worth of advice, I’ll head off to Whole Foods, spend entirely too much money on a cart-full of groceries, come home and make myself an avocado sandwich on gluten-free bread.  Ah, the life.

And, maybe, just maybe, I’ll Google dance studios in Houston, find the one that looks the least intimidating and, egads, give them a call.

Look for me on the next season of “So You Think You Can Dance” (in the audience).  I’ll be the one with the glowy face and new bod.  And a smile.  A BIG. FAT. FRIGGIN SMILE!

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Kraft Macaroni & Cheese?  Well, I do.  Always have…always will.  As a child, my preferred foods could fairly be described as, well…limited.  (Right now, my Mother is rolling her eyes and screaming “LIMITED?  DID YOU SAY ‘LIMITED’?  HOW ‘BOUT NON-EXISTENT?”)  Of course, she’s exaggerating, because that’s what moms do.  It’s a guilt thing…a microscopic organism that invades their body during conception of the first child, and NEVER. EVER. LEAVES.  I mean, c’mon, I did eat.  Yes, I visibly suffered through any meal that didn’t consist of Kraft Mac & Cheese, a hot dog or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but can you blame me?  I was a tortured child…subjected to weekly meals of meatloaf, stuffed bell peppers and porkchops and potatoes immersed in canned tomatoes and rice.  Had the child abuse hotline (and speed dial) been readily available in the 70s, I would have put them both to good use.  Instead, I waited patiently for the weekends and my favorite babysitter, Lori.  The one who took us to 7-11 for a sugar fix, Astroworld for an adrenaline rush, and, God bless her, to heaven with her perfectly prepared Kraft Mac & Cheese.  How she managed to magically blend just the right amount of milk, butter and fluorescent orange powdered “cheese”, I will never know, but I thank her for it today, with all that I am, and all that I will ever be.

My admittedly “simplistic” childhood palette was dealt a devastating blow in the fall of my eighteenth year of life.  It was my first year in college.  Texas A&M.  Krueger Hall:  a massive dorm connected to three others and joined in the middle by a sprawling cafeteria.  Here it was…standing before me.  A room full of choices and no maternal figure to force a balanced diet.  I was free to choose whatever my little heart desired.  Unfortunately (I would soon find out), my little heart desired a bit more than what was provided (a sea of muted tones, with the consistency of brain matter and the taste of burnt plastic).  Mommy?  Where are you Mommy?

The first year of college brings with it many-a-lesson:  (1) Choice: Start off week with Monday night buzzfest at Dudley’s pub…or attend Tuesday’s 8 a.m. Psychology class; (2) Cleanliness: Live in filth waiting for non-existent parent to remind you to wash pile of clothes or gather quarters and study for History exam in laundromat.; (3) Relationships:  Pursue hard-partying, self-involved frat boy or connect with lanky, kind, intelligent (and adorable) GDI (G-Damned Independent)…but most importantly (for me, at least), that first year of college brought with it the painful realization that my Mother, as much as I hated to admit it, had been right.  And (egads) I desperately missed her soupy pork chop concoction, the perfectly spiced spaghetti, the slow-cooked black-eyed peas and yes, even her onion-filled slabs of meatloaf.

As my fellow classmates packed on the Freshman fifteen, unphased by their daily consumption of prison slop, my frame began to hold much less.  My first trip home illicited the appropriate hand-over-mouth-gasp from my mother and the inappropriate diagnosis of a classic eating disorder (it’s the pyschotherapist in her).

“My God, honey…have you stopped eating.”

“Well, sort of,” I replied.  “But not for vanity purposes.”

“Tell me why, then!”

“I don’t like dog food,” I said.  “I miss your cooking.”

This was a moment of retribution only a mother can simultaneously revel in and abhor.  She spent the next three days toiling away in the kitchen, and, with reckless abandon, I gobbled down every last morsel placed in my path.

In the hmm hmm years since that semester of lessons, my palette has expanded to include just about every food imaginable…the more exotic, the better.  But every once in awhile, when I’m down or PMS’ing or just plain nostalgic, I’ll pull out the half stick of butter, break out the quarter cup of milk, stir in the fluorescent orange powder and shovel in as much Kraft Macaroni & Cheese as I can physically handle.  Then I lay back, hands crossed over distended belly, and dream of Laffy Taffy and The Texas Cyclone.