... the tales of two sisters

Dana lives in Seattle, and Tracie lives in Germany. We are businesswomen, writers and humorists. We write about life, dating, and today's modern women.

Message of the Day

My son shared a post yesterday on facebook which included the attached pictures here. One of them is of him working out at the gym–nothing unusual about that–except for the fact that he was born with only half of his heart and the doctors told me to let him die at his birth. The other picture is of him during a television interview and the others are pictures of my books in English and in German about my fight for his life. His post made me so proud that I want to share it today with you. There are no limits to what we can achieve when we are determined, have faith and love. Really love.


“Appreciate those who don’t give up on you.💭

Thank you to Weltbild publishers for the second publication of our story in paperback form!  😎🙏🏽

Latest news: 👇🏽

I had a young woman from Spain text me the other day via Instagram. She said she saw my story and pictures which gave her strength for her 21 month old kid, suffering from a cardiac issue. 💔

That’s what you get when you give.

Priceless 🤩🙏🏽

Let’s spread positive vibes around the world.” 🙂🌎📕🙌🏽


Yes, let’s do that. Peaceful weekend everyone.

Ride or Die..

This morning, I received the below article from one of my “sisters.”  As I read it, I realized how fortunate I am that I truly have “family” I consider my Ride or Die.  This slang was originally a biker term meaning if you couldn’t ride you’d rather die. It has now changed to mean anyone (wife, boyfriend, best friend), that you will “ride” ANY problems out with them or “die” trying.

When I reflect on the ups and downs of my personal journey – marriage, divorce, child rearing, death, engagement, medical concerns, business ebbs and flows, and all the daily routine of life; I want my Ride or Dies to know- I am grateful!  Because of YOU, I AM and I WILL- continue to grow, live, love, laugh, and cry without abandon or judgement.  Let’s continue to ride.


… A Ride or Die?   Shared this morning … xoxox

My best friend’s birthday was this past Sunday, and it got me thinking about everything we’ve gone through. We’ve been besties for more than 20 years, and let me tell you, nothing has changed. We live completely different lives now on the opposite ends of the country, but whether it’s two weeks or two months between our facetimes, our conversation flows the same.

It still surprises people that we lasted this long — we all know that as we get older, relationships change. Priorities shift. Self-care and family come first. Time becomes more precious. You learn to choose which relationships to invest in, which relationships to keep casual, and which to bid goodbye.

What has held us together is the ability to equally show up for each other. While there have been times when one of us has relied more on the other, we both understand that our relationship requires give and take. We might not physically be there for every birthday or girl’s night out, but when shit hits the fan, we drop everything for each other.

That’s true friendship. So here’s my question to you: do you have true friends? Your ride-or-dies? Take the time to look at your friends and evaluate who the keepers are. It might be time to bid goodbye to an energy-zapping relationship, because constantly giving isn’t balanced and it definitely isn’t friendship. On the other hand, if you’ve noticed someone has pulled away from you, think about whether you’ve given as much as you’ve taken in the relationship.

Real friends are hard to find, but when you do find them, hold them tight. Perhaps you too will find yourself sipping wine on your couch, facetiming your best friend of 20 years.

And to my Ride or Dies… If you need me- I’ll get there anyway I can, and we will enjoy the ride!

Paperback Writer!

The menopausebarbees are THRILLED to announce that the German of my book, Einen Herzschlag entfernt (English: Incompatible with Nature–A Mother’s Story) has now been published by another German publisher in paperback form: WELTBILD, one of the largest retail booksellers in Germany!

Just in time for summer reading! Yay!!!!


A Flicker of Promise in Incompatible with Nature

It feels like summer and it takes me back to a time when destiny would alter my life plans. Where was I? Read it here in Chapter 8 , A Flicker of Promise today at menoparebarbees today. The sun is shining, people are leaving and some are arriving for vacation. Reminds me of that one moment in time in my book, Incompatible with Nature’s–A Mother’s Story and how  destiny can can change your life…on a vacation. Enjoy everyone.

Bare feet. Warm sand. Palm fringed beaches. Puerto Vallarta.

Though the beachfront restaurant was comfortably crowded, my girlfriend and I spotted a free table not far from the water’s edge and moseyed on over. I didn’t have a care in the world while we waited on our orders, laughing and rehashing all the events of the past two days when suddenly I looked up directly into his face. Did a double take. He likes to say that I winked at him. I could swear it was just the sun in my eyes. He was in a cluster of guys, each of whom had sprawled himself picture postcard perfect in the sand or in one of the low backed sun chairs belonging to the adjacent beachside bar. In between their trying to get our attention and my girlfriend and I chattering away, he and I made eyes with each other. Penetrating glances where time stopped. Again and again. Something was going to happen….Read mote at www.menopausebarbees,com


A Flicker of Promise

Just as mysteriously as Marc’s swelling started, it stopped. As I raced onto   the first floor of the hospital, one of the station nurses smiled and pointed me in the direction of the ward. There he was taking his bo@le in the arms of a nurse. I threw on the mandatory green dressing gown and took over the feeding. I was thrilled down to my very bones.

Helmut came up sometime later that morning. He just couldn’t believe it. Our son looked like our son again. I was convinced that this was a direct sign from God and an indication of our son’s fighting spirit. We met the Professor in his office. He didn’t agree with me.

“I don’t know what the swelling meant or why it is gone,” he said. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

“But he’s eating and acting normal again,” I said.
“It won’t last,” he said. “It’s not possible.”
His eyes didn’t hold even the tiniest flicker of

promise. Moored so firmly to his position, he sucked the wind right out of my sails. To all my intents and purposes, dragging out this conversation would be a wasted effort. He clearly was not inclined towards saying anything I wanted to hear. And likewise, he

knew that I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. The ba@le line had been drawn. And each breath Marc took deepened it and lengthened it and made it wider. I clung to the fact that as long as my baby was alive I would be on a mission. I could not afford to sit on the sidelines and I would not. As far as I was concerned, the Professor needed to get some team spirit.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, trying somewhat successfully to stop myself from crying, I quietly stood, excused myself from his office and headed back to Marc.

Deflated but not defeated. I had hope because my son was alive.

What else was there?

Helmut had gone back to work. I leaned back into the hardness of the chair placed next to Marc’s bed and rested my hand on top of the crib coverlet somewhere near his feet as he slept. My gaze drifted beyond the windowpanes to that point where the horizon melted into the sky…

Bare feet. Warm sand. Palm-fringed beaches. Puerto Vallarta.

Though the beachfront restaurant was comfortably crowded, my girlfriend and I spo@ed a free table not far from the water’s edge and moseyed on over. I didn’t have a care in the world while we waited on our orders, laughing and rehashing all the events of the past two

days when suddenly I looked up directly into his face. Did a double take. He likes to say that I winked at him. I could swear it was just the sun in my eyes.

He was in a cluster of guys, each of whom had sprawled himself picture-postcard perfect in the sand or in one of the low-backed sun chairs belonging to the adjacent beachside bar. In between their trying to get our a@ention and my girlfriend and I cha@ering away, he and I made eyes with each other. Penetrating glances where time stopped. Again and again. Something was going to happen. I knew it.

He headed towards me. I scooted up and sat perched on the edge of my chair, smiling in his direction, my arms folded across each other on the table. Aside from the blue in his midnight blue bikini swim trunks, he was golden, from head to foot. With the last step of his approach he eased himself into bent knee alongside me. He crouched so close we could’ve touched toes if we dared.

In halting English he said, “Hi. My name is Helmut.” “Hi, I’m Tracie. Where are you from?”
“I am from Germany, and you?”
“My girlfriend and I are from Sea@le, Washington.

We’re on the northwest coast of America, neighbors with Canada,” I said, positioning my hands in the air on an invisible map indicating the positions of the states along the west coast of America. He stayed about ten minutes and we made that sort of conversation people make when they first meet each other. And want to see each other again. Only we spoke slower and used our limbs a lot. His buddies began ribbing him from across the way. They didn’t believe he’d have the nerve to come over to our table. He chuckled and threw a glance their way over his shoulder. He looked back to me and our giggles were tinged a soft shade of crimson in the sunlight.

“Tonight you meet me?” he said. His eyes shimmered gold and green and brown.

“Well, we’re invited to a party and –”

“Before the party we meet at Carlos O’Brian’s disco. Eight o’clock?” he said.

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.” I said.

He reluctantly stood to leave and our eyes feverishly held fast.

That night he spo@ed my girlfriend and me on the ragged edges of the forefront of the line outside the disco that had no end in sight. He maneuvered his way between the throng of people and pulled us inside. We made our way to his table, one of what seemed like hundreds stretching from here to there packed with party people. His arm enveloped my waist before we sat down. The club photographer captured our kilowa@ smiles. Somehow, we se@led into our own li@le pocket of conversation. We would meet later that evening at another club.

The wee hours of the morning saw him pull me tight into his arms in the middle of the dance floor. “Now you stay with me,” he said.

And we danced and danced and by the time the sun had risen…

“Frau Mayer…Frau May—”
I snapped my head to a@ention.
“Es ist Zeit,” (“It’s time”), the nurse said handing me

the thermometer. Embarrassed, yet somewhat annoyed that I’d been disturbed, I nonetheless smiled up at her.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping that I didn’t look a fool lost in my private dream in this public place. Time to take Marc’s temperature. I laid the thermometer on a towel near where he lay. I would wait just a li@le longer; he would soon stir.

And in German:

 Ein paar liebe Worte

Auf demselben mysteriösen Weg, wie Marcs Schwellung aufgetre-ten war, verschwand sie wieder. Auf meinem Sprint hoch in den ersten Stock des Krankenhauses lächelte mich eine der Stations-schwestern an und deutete in Richtung des Krankensaals. Da warMarc. Er lag in den Armen einer Krankenschwester und nuckeltean seinem Fläschchen. Ich streifte mir den obligatorischen grünen Kittel über und nahm der Schwester das Füttern ab. Ich war durchund durch begeistert.

Helmut kam irgendwann später an diesem Morgen. Er konntees einfach nicht glauben. Unser Sohn sah wieder wie unser Sohn aus. Ich war überzeugt, dass es sich dabei um ein unmittelbares Zeichen von Gott handelte und einen Hinweis auf den kämpferi- schen Geist unseres Sohnes. Wir trafen den Professor in seinem Arztzimmer. Er wollte mir nicht beipflichten.

»Ich weiß nicht, was diese Schwellung war oder warum sie wieder verschwunden ist«, sagte er. »Aber das ändert nichts.«

»Aber er isst und verhält sich wieder ganz normal«, entgegneteich.

»Das wird nicht anhalten«, sagte er. »Unmöglich.«

Seine Augen versprühten noch nicht einmal den kleinsten Funken eines Zuspruchs. So fest in seiner Position verankert, nahm er mir sofort den Wind aus den Segeln. Es wäre in jeder Hinsicht vergeudete Liebesmühe. Er war definitiv nicht gewillt,das zu sagen, was ich hören wollte. Umgekehrt wusste er, dass ichnichts von dem hören wollte, was er zu sagen hatte. Die Fronten waren geklärt. Und mit jedem Atemzug, den Marc nahm, wurdeder Graben zwischen dem Professor und mir tiefer und länger und breiter. Ich klammerte mich an die Tatsache, dass ich, solange mein Baby lebte, eine Mission zu erfüllen hatte. Ich konnte es mir nichtleisten, teilnahmslos am Spielfeldrand zu sitzen, und ich würde es nicht tun. Wenn es nach mir ginge, gehörte dem Professor ein bisschen Mannschaftsgeist eingehaucht.

Ich kniff mir mit Daumen und Zeigefinger in die Nasenwurzel und versuchte, einigermaßen erfolgreich, meine Tränen zu unter- drücken. Ich stand leise auf, bat darum, mir nachzusehen, dass ichnun das Zimmer verlassen würde, und ging zurück zu Marc. Ich war vielleicht müde, aber nicht geschlagen. Ich hatte Hoffnung, weil mein Sohn lebte. Was konnte wichtiger sein?

Helmut war zurück zur Arbeit gegangen. Ich lehnte mich zurückin den harten Stuhl, der an Marcs Bettchen stand. Er schlief. Ichlegte meine Hand auf die Decke, irgendwo neben seine Füßchen,und ließ meinen Blick zum Fenster schweifen, durch das Glas hindurch, zu dem Punkt dort draußen, wo der Horizont mit dem Himmel verschmolz. Ich dachte an Mexiko.

Barfuß. Warmer Sand. Palmengesäumte Strände. Puerto Vallarta.Obwohl das Strandrestaurant gut besucht war, entdeckten meine Freundin Valerie und ich einen freien Tisch nicht weit vom Meeresufer und schlenderten gemütlich hin. Ich war völlig sorgen- frei, während wir dort saßen, auf unsere Bestellung warteten undlachend die Erlebnisse der letzten beiden Tage Revue passieren ließen. Als ich aufsah, blickte ich direkt in Helmuts Gesicht. Ich musste zweimal hinsehen. Er erzählt ja gern, dass ich ihm zuge- zwinkert hätte. Aber ich bin mir fast sicher, dass ich geblinzelt habe, weil mir die Sonne so in die Augen schien.

Er war Teil einer Gruppe von jungen Männern, die sich entwederim Sand räkelten oder in einem der Sonnenstühle ausstreckten, die zur angrenzenden Strandbar gehörten. Während die Jungs versuchten, unsere Aufmerksamkeit zu erwecken, schwatzten Valerie und ich munter weiter. Aber für Helmut und mich gab es nur uns beide. Wir machten uns gegenseitig schöne Augen. Die Zeit stand still. Eindringliche Blicke, immer und immer wieder. Etwas würde passieren. Ich wusste es.

Helmut kam auf mich zu. Ich rutschte in meinem Stuhl hoch und setzte mich kerzengerade auf die Kante, lächelte in seine Richtung, meine Arme hatte ich vor mir auf dem Tisch übereinandergelegt. Bis auf den dunklen Streifen seiner mitternachtsblauen Badehosewar er golden von Kopf bis Fuß. Mit dem letzten Schritt auf michzu beugte er geschmeidig seine Knie und hockte sich neben mich.Er kam so nah, dass unsere Zehen sich berührt hätten, wenn wir es zugelassen hätten.

In stockendem Englisch sagte er: »Hi. Ich bin Helmut.«
»Hi. Ich bin Tracie. Woher kommst du?«
»Aus Deutschland. Und du?«
»Meine Freundin und ich sind aus Seattle, Washington. Das

liegt an der Nordwestküste der USA, neben Kanada«, sagte ich und positionierte meine Hände auf einer imaginären Landkarten in der Luft, wo ich ihm die verschiedenen Westküstestaaten einzeichne.

Er blieb etwa zehn Minuten bei mir sitzen und wir sprachen miteinander, wie Leute eben so miteinander sprechen, wenn sie sich zum ersten Mal treffen und sich wiedersehen wollen. Aberwir sprachen langsamer und machten viel Gebrauch von unserem Körper. Seine Kumpels begannen, ihn aus ein paar Metern Entfer- nung aufzuziehen. Sie hatten nicht geglaubt, dass er den Schneidaufbringen würde, zu unserem Tisch zu kommen. Er feixte und warf ihnen über seine Schulter hinweg einen Blick zu. Dann sah er zu mir zurück, und unsere kichernden Gesichter färbten sich im Licht der Sonne in ein sanftes Karmesinrot.

»Treffen wir uns heute Abend?«, fragte er. Seine Augen leuch- teten golden, grün und braun.

»Also, wir sind zu einer Party eingeladen und –«

»Vor der Party treffen wir uns in Carlos O’Brian’s Disco. 20:00 Uhr?«, fragte er.

»Okay, wir sehn uns dann dort«, sagte ich.

Zögerlich stand er auf, um zu gehen. Unsere Augen hielten fiebernd aneinander fest.

Am Abend erspähte er Valerie und mich an der umkämpften Spitze der endlos langen Schlange, die sich vor Carlos O’Brian’sgeformt hatte. Helmut manövrierte sich durch die Menschenmen-ge, schnappte uns und zog uns in den Club hinein. Wir schlugen uns zu seinem Tisch durch, einem von scheinbar hunderten, die vom einen Ende zum anderen des Clubs reichten und von Party- volk besetzt waren. Sein Arm umschlang meine Taille, bevor wiruns setzten. Der Hausfotograf fing unser strahlendes Lächeln ein. Irgendwie richteten wir uns auf unserer eigenen kleinen Gespräch-sinsel ein. Wir vereinbarten, uns später in einem anderen Club zu treffen.

In den frühen Morgenstunden, auf der Tanzfläche, zog er michan sich und schloss mich fest in seine Arme.

»Jetzt bleibst du bei mir«, sagte er.
Und wir tanzten und tanzten, und als die Sonne aufging …

»Frau Mayer. Frau May –«
Mein Kopf schnellte hoch.
»Es ist Zeit«, sagte die Krankenschwester und gab mir das

Peinlich berührt und auch etwas genervt, weil sie mich gestört

hatte, lächelte ich sie an.
»Danke«, sagte ich und hoffte, dass ich mich nicht lächerlich

gemacht hatte, weil ich in meinen privaten Träumen versunken in einem öffentlichen Raum gesessen hatte.

Es war Zeit, Fieber zu messen. Ich legte das Thermometer auf ein Handtuch neben Marc. Ich würde noch ein bisschen warten. Er würde sich gleich rühren.

Something for Your Toolbox

Some words of wisdom from a woman I am so proud to call my friend. For your toolbox today. Let’s end the week on a good note!

Wikipedia: “Wendy Oxenhorn a.k.a. “The Barefoot Baroness,” is the Executive Director & Vice Chairman of the Jazz Foundation of America, co-founder of Street News, and a blues harmonica player.” And just an angel. Period.

“When the Power of Love replaces the love of power, only then will this world be free from its illusions.

Stay awake. The world needs you.” 

Peaceful weekend everybody.

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No Ifs, Ands, or BUTTS…

Last night I was catching up with girlfriends and of course we covered a plethora of topics ranging from Politics to Potlucks.  One revolving theme is a weighty subject.  I’m fortunate as my mother is bluntly honest and when I get dressed, if my attire makes me look like Kim Kardashian towing a load – she tells me.   She has warned me mercilessly over the years, so much so, that I dressed up as Kim one Halloween.

with my son, Brett.

As a youngster, my nickname was Dana Buns.  Literally my weight by-passed every section of my body and landed in the rear.  I can’t express how grateful I was the day Spanx were invented. My one treasured item from my grandma was her girdle.  They truly don’t make em’ like they used to!  I wore that thing till it was frayed and elastic cut into my folds.  For years, I would sit on our family’s rock slate floor and pound in a walking motion forward and back trying to melt away the derriere.  To this day, I drink fat attacking tonics such as Apple Cider Vinegar daily.  I walk and pound the pavement,  the struggle is real.  I never understood the trend of adding implants and padding to the backside.


All this talk about weight reminded me of a post, my co-blogger and sister Tracie shared a few years back.  Question: “What did the 50 year old woman say as she stood staring at her naked self in the mirror?
Answer: “This is what he deserves.”

Bottom line.. No ifs, ands, or Butts… I’ll keep working on it!

The H Word

When I sat down to write this blog, I considered giving voice to my concern of the major world event that took place in Helsinki yesterday–and then I changed my mind. 

Today I am going to blog about. . .something pleasing, pleasurable and pretty amazing. Something happy.

The scene: a couple days ago. Five-thirty A.M.

Birds are singing and a sapphire blue sky holds the promise of what will be another gloriously sunny day in this city called Montreux, on the shores of Lake Geneva.

I’ve  just stepped outside into the predawn air from the jam packed–six hundred people packed–Montreux Jazz Club where menopausebarbee uncle Quincy Jones celebrated his 85th birthday party. Great big huge, gigantic, sorbet birthday cake with fireworks popping off of it and all! I mingled for a while with several other guests who were all still jaw-dropped at the amazing performances of musicians who blew us away with their improvisational performances–performances that had no sound check, I might add. This is the Montreux jazz festival. 

You can read who was in the show at –Quincy Jones’ 85th Birthday Celebration. Mos Def isn’t listed on the program, but he performed!! “Space is the place!”

6 A.M. 

Check out for me is noon. I decided the best thing would be for me to call it a wonderful night/experience/event/love fest and get my butt back to the hotel. I go back inside and see Uncle Q STILL surrounded by I don’t even know how many people. I look at him in amazement. I don’t know how he does all the handshaking and hugging and “Of course I remember running into you on the corner of 34th and 5th (or wherever) in 1962!”


Anyway, I worm my inside the throng, hug him and tell him I’m heading back to Cologne in a few hours and it’s time for me to say goodnight or good morning. “What?!!,” he says.  We kiss and hug tightly.

I’m smiling as I head back to my hotel. How could I not? And then, I join in step with  Mr. Richard Bona. This grammy winning jazz bassist performed in the show and the audience went wild  when he stepped on stage.This son of the Cameroons is just cool. Temperamentally, I mean. As soon as his fans spotted him, it was picture game on! He’d been working, it’s six in the morning and he is obliging. All of us. Youtube him and get your happy groove on. 

This is Montreux! 

We’re talking happy–not Helsinki.

F! My Favorite Letter!

My favorite letter is F

It’s the first letter of my life-long last name, Frank!

It’s the first letter of my favorite day of the week, Friday!

It’s my favorite word when my situational Tourette’s takes over!

It starts with Freedom, which is what we all are entitled to!

And the best things are Life are FREE-

So FINALLY, This picture says it all…

It’s the first letter of those closest to me FAMILY AND FRIENDS!


The Little Tramp

He sang his first song on stage at the age of 5. 

He and his half brother spent their lives growing up in England between charitable homes and work houses as their mother–separated from their father–suffered from bouts of insanity. After 18 years in an asylum in England, this icon of the silent film era relocated his mother to a home in California.  

On my recent trip to Montreux, Switzerland, I had no idea that I would be visiting the home of “The Little Tramp” Charlie Chaplin, in Vevey, Switzerland, a neighboring village about a ten minute train ride away. 

Though his life was filled with scandal and controversy, he nonetheless was/is considered one of the greatest filmmakers in the history–the history–of American cinema. One item in the house I found to be of most interest was a picture of Oona O’Neill Chaplin, the last wife of Chaplin and the mother of eight of his eleven children. It was a picture of her father, Nobel and Pulitzer-Prize-winning American playwright Eugene O’Neill. It was noted on the picture that O’Neill chose to never speak to his daughter again after marrying Chaplin because he didn’t approve of their 36 year age gap. 

Wow…Never is a very long time.

The tour dedicated to the life work of this genius was quite fascinating. Aside from roaming inside several rooms of the house, there is a movie theater where one catch about a fifteen minute highlight of his film career; and still footage and films and posters of Chaplin abound. There is even a movie studio with his original costumes and life sized statues. Youtube Switzerland: Chaplin’s World museum opens at his mansion on Lake Geneva and take a look.

Six of Chaplin’s films have been selected for preservation in the National Film Registry by the United States Library of Congress: The Immigrant (1917), The Kid (1921), The Gold Rush (1925), City Lights (1931), Modern Times (1936) and The Great Dictator (1940).

Chaplin died at age 88 of natural causes on December 25, 1977 at his home in Vevey, Switzerland. His funeral was a small and private Anglican ceremony according to his wishes. And if you can believe this–some lunatic (s) stole his corpse from its grave in 1978. They wanted the equivalent of $ 600,000. The grave robbers were caught and the corpse was found three months later and re-buried in a vault surrounded by cement.

One of the greatest filmmakers in the history of American cinema. 

And I love this quote about CC from Ed Stephan: “His films show, through the Little Tramp’s positive outlook on life in a world full of chaos, that the human spirit has and always will remain the same.”


Thank you Charlie Chaplin.

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Who Nose Best?

My sinus allergies had taken a toll.  Last year, I saw my primary physician too many times to count with the constant complaint about my clogged nasal passages.  I sounded like a symphony – honking, sniffing, blowing.  My fiancé teasingly called my his girlfriend, Mort.  It reminded me of a joke I used to tell as a youngster, don’t kiss your honey if your nose is runny, you may think it’s funny, but it’s snot!  lol

All jokes aside, my doctor and I lamented over treatment.  Measures included nasal sprays, Sudafed, Zyrtec, Clairton, and antibiotics.  All tried and true for temporary relief or perhaps a good night’s sleep only to return to my symphony honking, sniffing, blowing.

I was telling my dear resourceful friend, Merideth Tall about my struggles and she suggested I contact The Sinus Ninja.  Now, I’m open to alternative medicine – trust me, I’ve had acupuncture, biofeedback, and imbibed many holistic tinctures to treat various ailments over the years.  So I was open and optimistic as I crawled onto Dr. Frank Aversano aka Sinus Ninja’s chair.  With my face cradled forward in the chair, Dr. Frank proceeded to apply eucalyptus, rosemary and other natural substances to sticks.  He told me it would not hurt, but would feel uncomfortable.  That was an understatement as I tried to breath and meditate that the pain was part of the gain to healing.

Well, it’s been 48 hours and I am happy to report that I am Sudafed free!  Although I’m still slightly congested, my nasal symphony  no longer has a conductor. Simply put,  I slept through the night.

I will see the Ninja Doctor for three more weeks and if you are stuffed up, I suggest you get stuck up!