I brought this on myself.

WARNING: Female things discussed.

Peter de Seve, Thar She Blows (sketch)

I am in idiot.  Why couldn't I just leave well enough alone?  Sure, there was that pregnancy scare because I hadn't had my period in 3 months, but why couldn't I just embrace the peri-menopause?  Why did I have to seek out the OBGYN who put me on pills to regulate my wonky periods?

"Take one of these pills the 1st to the 15th of the month for the next three months."

"D'uh... Okay Doc." 

I should have just cancelled the appointment.  I mean sure, before the 3 month drought, when the appointment had been set, I was down to a 17 or a 15 or an 18 day cycle, but what if that 3 month drought was leading into actual cessation of bleeding?  Did I just ruin it? 

'Cause two days after I stopped taking the pill...

 THAR SHE BLOWS!!!

The flood had returneth.  I used to think that two days of heavy bleeding with make-you-yodel cramping was bad.  I take it back.  5 days of heavy bleeding with accompanying cramping and blood clots the size of toonies is worse.  My body, was not happy with me.

Plus?!?   UNDER THE CHIN ACNE.  What the hell?  For those three months, my crazy-ass, peri-menopasue acne had abated.  Period comes back and I looked like a small pox victim. And MOODY?!?  Great mother Gaia - the mood swings.  David and Rissa exist in juxtaposed states of placation or self-preservation depending upon what emotion is wending its way through my body.

I now have to maintain strength of resolve on account of the frickin' food cravings.  There was a tray of praline encrusted graham crackers at the office yesterday.  Praline encrusted graham crackers should not be eaten by me.  There was enough gluten and sugar in those tidbits to take down a water buffalo.  After having eaten 4 of those suckers my already tenuous hold on civility was gone.  I felt like shit and I felt guilty for having allowed myself to be seduced by the deadly plate.  I needed to exercise and was a petulant and despondent lump.  I had to walk.  I didn't want to walk.  I wanted to lie in bed and read erotica.  But after dinner, I put one depressed foot in front of the other and I walked.  And  just the way Karen Walrond told me to in her Houston TEDx talk, I looked for the light.   With the sun low in the sky I found myself on the boardwalk, breathing in the wildflowers, crouching down to pet a furry caterpillar and listening to the red-winged blackbirds.  Clichéd, dorky, make-you-feel-good things.  But you know what?  They did.  And by the time I returned home 45 minutes later I was no longer a peevish sheep and I still had enough time to lie in bed under the covers and read erotica.   It was really win-win all around.

Snatched from the jaws of death...

So basically, if you threaten a cat with euthanasia?  They get better.  That's what happened to Steve.  One day at death's door ...  Me checking in on him every two hours overnight as he was sequestered in our main floor bathroom.  Him just lying there - near flat as a pancake and all glassy-eyed.  And I'd basically prepared myself for taking him in the next morning and giving the order.  The "put him out of his misery" order.  Except that the next morning - there he was sitting up and when I called his name, he actually looked at me, all clear-eyed and on the cusp of being alert. 

Apparently, each beast we own gets one funding of extraordinary measures.  We give them that one brush with death.  That near-cross on the River Styx.  It's happened with a bunch of our cats.  Nym - $900 who then managed to live another couple of years.  Bardolph - $1800 - for a month I had to feed that frickin' cat through a tube in his neck because he refused to eat - and then he was all better and lived another 4 years.  So they each get their one episode.  They either bounce back, or they get put down.  We prepare for the worst - know when to cut our losses and they sense it.  They know that if they want to remain on this mortal coil they perk the fuck up and live.

And for that I'm thankful.  Because Steve is the greatest cat.  He is a cat of epic personality and snuggliness.  It would have sucked to put him down.  And now?  After a 1/2 dozen visits and re-checks from our amazing vet team, he lies on the foot of our bed and purrs.  Yesterday, he started playing again - chasing after toys, cavorting under my feet.  He's back.

ps - We are the human parents of a feline rock star.  Every single person working at the vet clinic knows and loves Steve.  "STEVE!"  "Hey buddy!"  "Hiya handsome!"  "How's Mr. Steve?"   Nobody there knows my name, but by God they were pulling for my orange tabby.  My cat.  My goofy and personable cat had everyone in that clinic wrapped around his paw - that positive psychic energy may well be what saved him.

Rissa the Brilliant

I'm okay in the brains dept.  I have my 128 IQ.  Or at least that's what every free online IQ test tells me.  So I'm smart, but not Mensa smart.  David is Mensa smart - plus some.  He's around 162.  But he can't find the ketchup in the fridge, so draw your own conclusions.

Rissa's average math mark this year was 91%.  She kicked math's ass.  I was always an A student in math, but not that kind of A.  I look at this goofy and beautiful girl and she blows my mind.  My egg and David's sperm got busy and made HER.  And I know that every parent thinks that their  child is brilliant, but I actually think that she might be.  Unless the school is lying - but really, why would they do that?  She has an 85 overall average without really applying herself.  Imagine what would happen if she actually thought to study.

So here's to her.  To my beautiful and brilliant daughter.  I could just burst I'm so proud of her.

The sweet smell of gasoline...

Just one whiff of it - always takes me back... Back to 1984.  To being 16.  To spending the summer in Nova Scotia at my grandparents' house.  To falling head over heels in love with a small town mechanic.  Rodney.  (sigh)  He worked at the garage in Bridgetown.  He wore grease-monkey overalls and at the end of the day had to scrub his hands clean from all the motor oil.  He rode a Honda 750 motorcycle.  Late at night, I would lie on my bed listening for that motorcycle. He rode that bike without a helmet, wearing a pair of jeans nothing else.  Just a glimpse of him on the bike made my heart pound.  I was infatuated.  He had green eyes.  GREEN!  He had a rockin' stache (think young Tom Selleck) and drank stubby beer, cause that's how they made them then.  Rodney was 21.

Only now, as the mother of my own teenaged daughter, do I realize why my mother, when she found out about this tryst, freaked the fuck out.  But at the time, I couldn't see what was wrong with the picture.

"MOM!  I am grown up now!  He knows that I am mature."

"He knows that you're built like brick outhouse is what he knows..."

I was so mature, so old-beyond-my-years, so.... infatuated.  God was I dumb.  Sure he liked me.  Oh yeah he did.  Today, my nearly 45 year old breasts, still have a great deal of tone and lift to them - at 16 they would have been spectacular!!  I had a helluva personality, even back then, but a smokin' hot body is like catnip to young men.  I was 16, with a kick-ass auburn perm, blue eyes and braces.  But he really liked me.  He really respected me.

Except, you know what's funny?  I think he kinda did.  'Cause when I was determined to offer myself to Rodney (in the backseat of his Duster - there's class for you), we got to the part where I should  have lost my virginity and I was willing to grit my teeth against the pain... he stopped.  In my extremely limited experience with men I thought that stopping wasn't possible.  I, as many girls my age, thought that once they got to a certain point, men couldn't stop.  Or maybe that's just what young swains tell the girls they're trying to climb on top of.  But here was Rodney - stopping.  Because he discovered I was a virgin.

"We should stop."

"No, no, I'm okay...  I'm okay..."

"We should stop."

And we did.  That night.  I guess when you have a nubile girl desperate to lose her virginity, you can only remain stoic for so long.  I mean, he wasn't a saint.

Creeper!! Or how Rissa is prejudiced against old people.

You know Something's Gotta Give?  The movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson?  We recently watched it with Rissa.  Rissa loves a good romantic comedy.

"EEEEEEEEWWWWW!  He's soooooooo old.  How can he be dating her?"  Early in the film, Jack Nicholson is dating Amanda Peet - who is less than 1/2 his age and plays Diane Keaton's daughter.

Then later... "That's just wrong.  She's too old for him!" At this point in the film, Diane Keaton is dating Keanu Reeves - almost 1/2 her age. 

"Rissa, there'll come a time when age differences like that won't matter."

"No there won't."

She got freaked out by Steve Martin dating Darryl Hannah in Roxanne - his grey hair made him look older - so she's ageist and greyist.  She got freaked out by James Garner dating Sally Field in Murphy's Romance.  Can you imagine if I showed her Funny Face? 

"Rissa I'm 5 years older than Daddy.  I was 28 and he was 23 when we met."

Her eyebrows settle at the bridge of her nose.  "I guess that's not so bad."

"Trust me.  After you're in your 20s, age isn't such a big deal.  I'm not saying that you should be dating someone who's 21 when your 16..."

"Didn't you date someone who was 21 when you were 16?"

"Yes.  But you are going to learn from my mistakes.  And any 21 year old who goes out with my 16 year old daughter?  CREEPER."

Cardiologist convinced it's NOT my heart - YAY?

According to the cardiologist and am in near-perfect heart health.  The chances of me having a heart attack within the next 5 years are almost nil!!  HURRAY!!! HURRAY!!!  According to him, my 5-year history of chest pain is not related to my cardiac health.

 "So Doc, what is causing my chest pain?"

"I have no idea."

"Any idea who might?"

"Maybe you could try a GI specialist."

"I've been to one, it's not GI."

"Then I'm not sure what I can tell you..."

This is where, in my mind, I grab the dude by his oxford shirt collar, pull him to within inches of my now-crazed eyes.

"Then who can?  WHO?!?  'Cause it's not like I can ignore heart attack symptoms.  I'd try, except that  every piece of medical advice says that you shouldn't ignore heart attack symptoms.  So tell me Doc...   Tell me who I can see.  Tell me who will clear up this medical mystery.  TELL ME WHO WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!"

Out loud I say, "Who would you recommend I go to then?"  I am calm.  I am not frothing at the mouth.

"Maybe a physiatrist?"

"A... phy... whatnow??"

"A physiatrist - deals with musculoskeletal issues and chronic pain."

Excellent, I shall see another "ist."   "So could you give me a referral to a physiatrist?"

"You'd have to get that from your GP."

I leave the office, determined not to cry.  This is good news.  I have just heard good news.  It's good news.  Right?  I still have NO FREAKING CLUE what's wrong with me, but this is good news.  I get in the car.    U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For plays on the radio.  I start laughing hysterically.  Driving home, I sing along at the top of my lungs...  laughing...  crying... While stopped at a light, some of the singing morphs into primal screaming with accompanying rhythmic pounding on the steering wheel.  By the time the light is green I have my shit together and logic has re-entered my cranium.  I square off my shoulders and take a deep breath.  Alright.  What's next?

Cool Rissa tricks

"You should feel this Mummy," says Rissa, as she deliberately creases her forehead.  "It gets all lumpy.  It's awesome!"

"I always liked that I could move my scalp back and forth," I reply - taking my fingertips and moving my scalp over my skull and then reaching over and moving hers.

"Wait!  Wait!" she begs.  "I can do this cool thing with my tongue.  I figured it out in my mouth and then when I looked at it in the mirror it was soooooo cool."

"Okay.  Show me."

She screwed up her mouth - eyes bugging out a bit - she started snorting with laughter and showed me her tongue - not doing anything particularly special - not a tunnel, nothing - kind of just lying there.

"Wait!  Wait!!"

"I'm not seeing anything.  You just look like you've tasted something yucky."

"What I'd really like is to be able to make my tongue look like a snake tongue - you know with two parts..."

"Your tongue would have to be cut in two..."

"Yeah!  Like this lady from a Freak Show in New Jersey..."

"New Jersey?"

"Yeah - she could move her tongue in two different directions at the same time!"

"So she could pick both nostrils at once if she really wanted to?"

"EEEEEWW!!  Mummy!  Gross!"

"You're the one who wants a snake tongue - I'm just thinking of the perks."