Good News! I'm IMMORTAL!!!

WARNING: Feminine issues discussed


"Are you FREAKING kidding me?"

"What? What is it?"  David looks into the bathroom from the hallway.  He finds me on the toilet, scowling downward.  I shoot him a look.

"Seriously?" he asks.  "Didn't you just...?"

"Yes.  Yes I DID just... It's been almost two full weeks - off and on."

"What's that phrase?  Never trust something that bleeds for 5 days but doesn't....?" He quickly changes tacks before I stab him with the cuticle scissors within my reach.  "Wait!   There's a bright side."

I glare at him.  "Pray, tell..."

"You've been bleeding this long and you haven't died...  I think...  Heather, I think you might be IMMORTAL!"

"HAH!"

"No seriously.  This right here?  THIS is you achieving immortality."

Doubling over with another cramp, I manage a small, yet incredibly sarcastic "Hurray." 

Sex Ed in the New Millennium

WARNING: REAL LIFE IS DISCUSSED

In 1979, my mother attended a parent council meeting in Kingston, Nova Scotia.  The topic: SEX EDUCATION.  (Gasp!)  The community was up in arms - what were they going to be teaching our kids??  If you teach kids about sex, all they'll want to do is try it for themselves!! Sex Education belongs in the home!!!

The classes at Kingston Elementary School were not mandatory. If you felt that teaching your child this information at home was better for said child, you had every right to do so.  Problem was... the kids who were being pulled from the Sex Ed classes weren't likely to be getting sex education at home.  They were given instructions to abstain and the rest was radio silence. 

Fast forward to Ontario 2015.  A new Sex Ed curriculum is in the pipeline for September of 2015.  At the beginning of May, panicky parents across Ontario were pulling their kids from school to protest the proposed fall Sex Ed curriculum.

Here's the kicker... the Sex Ed component of Ontario health classes is not mandatory.  Let me repeat that: THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  So basically, if you don't want your kid to be educated about puberty, the concept of consent, safe sex, gender diversity, STIs, and masturbation - your kid doesn't have to.  You can opt them out.  Because why?  Because...

THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  

By all means, pull your kids out of the classes.  If Sexual Education goes against your belief system, makes you uncomfortable - pull your kids.  Go for it.  But that's all I'll let you have.  If you protest what MY child could be learning, if you protest that kids should know that a vagina is a vagina and a penis is a penis and that STIs are bad?  I'm going to have to smack you upside the head.  When you protest discussions about consent, safe-sex (for everyone on this planet, regardless of sexual orientation),  and the fact that mutual masturbation is a viable option in place of having intercourse?  It makes me want to parade uninformed 13 year old pregnant girls in front of you.  It makes me want to force you to look full on at the physical effects of gonorrhea.  It makes me want you to listen in extreme discomfort as  kindergartners tell stories about adults who touched them IN (not on) one of their private spots because they were never told that they could say "NO" to a grown up.

Your kid DOESN'T HAVE TO TAKE THE COURSE.  But please, don't tell me that my kid shouldn't be educated because potential Sex Ed topics make you feel 'icky.'  Sex Education isn't for you.  It's for the kids who are rounding 2nd base on their way to 3rd while possibly being pressured to allow someone to slide home or having the urge to slide home themselves.  Just like you probably did.  My generation got a quick thrill from looking at a skin mag.  My daughter's?  They can find free porn on the Internet that shows six guys jerking off onto a woman's face.   And unless they're told differently, they think that this is something that 'all chicks dig.' 

Sex in 2015 ain't squeaky clean, it ain't easy and it sure as hell ain't simple.  Yes, it can be amazing when you're mature enough to deal with its emotional fall out, but without education - proper education - (not just what they hear from peers, or what they can Google on the Internet) - kids have to walk through a mine field.  I want the Sex Ed we talk about at home supported by the educational equivalent of a bomb squad to keep my daughter informed and sexually safe.  Knowing there are parents out there who don't want my daughter informed and sexually safe, scares the crap out of me.  Knowing there are parents who would rather have their children uninformed, flailing in the dark when it comes to the most basic functions of their bodies is freaking terrifying.

Sure, we might dream of a world where abstinence is choice number one, but it's 2015 - most kids with a cell phone will be sexting at some point.  The kids with the knowledge?  They generally aren't the ones who think that condoms alone will stop you from getting knocked up.  They aren't the ones who inadvertently spread chlamydia, because they don't know what it looks or feels like.   Sure, you go ahead and keep your kids out of Sex Ed, go for it... but don't you even think about telling me that my daughter shouldn't have access to that knowledge. One of my major priorities as the parent of a teenage girl is not to become a grandparent before my daughter graduates high school, so I'll take ALL the help I can get thanks.

RISSA: MASTER OF LAMPS!!!

"Who needs an eggroll??" I ask from upstairs.

"A-PRIL!  NOT EGGROLL MUMMY!!!"

"Pardon??"

"THERE WAS NO EGGROLL MENTIONED!"

"My bad."

"Speaking of eggrolls," says David.

"Nice segue..."

"Who's up for seeing a movie after school?"

"Age of Voltron?" I ask excitedly.

"ULTRON, Mummy!"

"Right ULTRON!"

"There was a Voltron, you know," says David.  "It was a cartoon I had to sneak to watch.* That and ThunderCats, and Transformers - they were all robot-type thingies... but ... BUT... WAIT!!   Wait, you know in that other movie, where all the ginormous robots had to wade into the sea to defeat the..."

"Pacific Rim?"

"Yeah, that one... Well, remember how in Pacific Rim, the robots all had to all join together to create one big... ?"

"I don't think..."

"Wait, no, they didn't come together - they were just massive - you're right!  They fought separately, but together... With VOLTRON all these different parts would connect if they had to battle something really evil.  Each one had a special robot, and they all had these lion heads, (he's very excited now) in Voltron, each individual robot - piloted by actual people - all had to come together to create a giant SWORD-WIELDING robot!!   Together they became... (he pauses for effect) VOLTRON: DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE!"

 Voltron 1984

"Why couldn't I have been given a name like that?" asks Rissa.  "RISSA: MASTER OF LAMPS!"

"You know, when you're all full-grown," says David.  "You can legally change your name to almost anything you want."

"REALLY?!?  So I actually could change my name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock?"  (The kid is a big Friends fan.)

It is apparent that we have opened up a whole new universe of possibility for our child. BEST. PARENTS. EVER.

"Although... Being Master of Lamps I could perfect a kick-ass power stance when I used my eyeball power to control all lamps everywhere."

"Well, obviously," I agree.

David has been utterly distracted and is now watching the openings of all three shows on YouTube.  Rissa is practicing her power stance. 

*David was not allowed to watch cartoons - except for the Smurfs. His cartoonal education continues with me.

 ThunderCats, ThunderCats, ThunderCats... HO! 1984

Transformers 1984

Spongy Mc-Wipey

"Are you done with this?" asks David as he holds up the scrubby sponge.

"I am, thanks.  If you wouldn't mind putting it away."

He looks around all confuseled.

"You don't know where it lives, do you?" I ask.

"Sure I do," he says - gesticulating wildly - a vain attempt to distract from his ignorance.

"In the cupboard there," I vaguely point to the vanity.

He reaches for the drawer...

"No, the cupboard, hon..."  And then it hits me.

"What?"  he asks.

"How long have we lived in this house?"

"Hmmmm?"

"When did we move?  Over a year ago, right?"

"Y.... es."

I raise my eybrows at him.  "You've never seen that sponge before, have you?  It's never been in your hand."

"Ummmm...""

I let out a deep cackle.  "You have never cleaned this bathroom."

"Uhhhh...  Well...  No...  I guess that I haven't..."

"Wait!  Have you EVER cleaned a bathroom?"  I think back to our last house.  "Have you actually ever cleaned a toilet?"

"Of course I have cleaned a toilet.  I've even cleaned the tub once or twice, but usually what happens is that you re-clean it after me, so we decided..."

I look at him.

"...that it was probably better if you did the bathrooms..." he trails off.

"We decided?"

"Well you do tend to re-clean something if you think it hasn't been done right," he defends.

I raise my eyebrows again.

"To be fair," he backpedals.  "You might not feel the need to re-clean something if it had been properly cleaned in the first place."

I snort.  "Is this like when you were younger and if you and your brother waited long enough to finish a chore your Mom would just lose patience and do it herself?"

"NO!  Of course not.  I just have a different skill-set around the house.  See, I am the one who FIXES the toilets.  I vacuum like nobody's business.  I hook up all our new media players..."  He looks like he's waiting for a high-five.

"Dude.  You didn't know where the sponge LIVED."

"But I do know what it's used for.."  He gives a tentative grin.

A laugh escapes me.  "Other women would not react with laughter to this situation?'

"No they probably wouldn't."

I smile.  "Other women don't blog."

From New Girl

Squelchy in public...

I should have worn extra protection.   I didn't because it's Day 4 - my feminine mystique slacks off by Day 4.  Plus, my faithful Diva Cup holds a full ounce - I should be good.  And yet... the squelchiness.

I wince when I bend over to grab a paint brush... Oh, that does not feel right... I am decidedly squelchy... And apparently crampy... What the fuck?!?  DAY 4!  This is DAY 4!!  SQUELCH.  Oh dear God, please don't let me bleed out.

Well, there is no washroom - I've gotta let it run its... no... let's not put that out there.  Asking for a lift home, praying that the squelchy feeling is just that, a feeling.  Please don't let me bleed all over her mini van seats, please don't let me bleed all over her mini van seats... 

"I can get out at the light!" I suggest.

"You sure?"

"Oh yeah," I say, opening the door even before we come to the light.  "Thanks!"

No problem, just a block and I'll be home.  I jog a bit, you know, to get home that much faster...  Bad decision.  That is a bad decision. I now feel like I've peed my pants except that I know I haven't.  1/4 of a block to go.  I glance down.  Thank God I am wearing jeans - nothing looks like it has seeped completely through... I lift my arm in a celebratory fist pump... I have spoken too soon.  No worries, with the denim, it just looks like I have wet myself.  I saunter nonchalantly  - I can always take off my spring jacket and wrap it around my waist...  Nobody would notice anything because the entire jacket is already red.  Why are my upper thighs warm?!?  Oh COME ON!!!

By the time I get upstairs to the bathroom and take off my clothes, I look like I've been eviscerated.  Oh no, my cotton panties.  For the love of...  I like these panties!  They're hot pink with green and blue ribbon... These are good ass panties.  The jeans are even worse - how does one clean blood stains by the linear foot?  Now I have to Google whether cold or warm water is best for removing blood stains.  Which, if CSIS is monitoring internet questions, could be a red flag... HAH!  RED FLAG!  I start laughing - the cats give me a look when the laughter takes on a more maniacal edge.

After my impromptu sitz bath, I swaddle myself in a robe, eat popcorn, chocolate and two hotdogs while watching old clips of Britain's Got Talent.

Sniff.  Sniff.  Damn you Janey Cutler!  Damn you, you adorable octogenarian with your adorable Scottish accent, and Piaf-like pipes!!    Now I need a tissue along with the ice cream that I will have emergency delivered.   

Life with a perfectionist.

Rissa may look like me, but she gets her perfectionist streak from David.  David comes from a long line of perfectionists.  On his worst days, David will despair, "I'm not good at anything!!!"  David is on crack when he says this.

"I'm a Jack of all trades and master of none," he huffs.

"Okay, first off, you're a David of all trades and master of most of them."  And then I shoot him an angry eyeball, warning him that he doesn't want me to itemize the myriad of ways he is much, much better than your average bear at almost anything he sets his mind to.  What he is not, is PERFECT at all of them.  But he comes pretty frickin' close.

Rissa, since she began to move, has had the highest of expectations for her performance.  I remember her wailing at Air Zone, at the top of the 30 foot inflatable slide saying, "I want to but I can't."  Which makes sense, because her 3.5 year old gaze was on the 30 foot downward slope of primary-coloured plasticized fabric that I, at the age of 35, would have had to work up my nerve to propel myself down.  I went up and carried her down, but she squared her shoulders and climbed up again and sat there, working herself up to it - all the while crying, as child after child went past her and down the 30 foot drop.  All the parents in Air Zone, looking at me like I had set this Herculean task upon her toddler shoulders, when it was ALL her.

"Rissa, honey, you don't have to do this!"

"I want to but I can't!!!"

Cut to 11 years later...  Dancing.  Rissa has always danced.  We have the obligatory naked baby dancing videos where she bounces to bagpipes and taiko drums from a Cirque du Soleil soundtrack.  Like her father, she understands music and tempo.  It's always served her well.  As she gets taller and taller, her physical centre has shifted and the dance turns she had accomplished so easily last year, are, in her mind, now causing her grief.  Lately, she comes home in near tears, having practiced her turns at the end of an already long day. David brings her home from the dance studio, throws me a sidelong, wide-eyed 'I don't know how to deal with this' look and shakes his head slightly in warning as he brings her into the house.

"I can't turn," says Rissa.  It is obvious that one mislaid comment could send her headlong into hysteria...

"Tonight," I reply.

"Pardon?"

"You can't turn tonight.  You're probably tired.  Go have a shower."

Her face crumples.

"Okay, let's head upstairs," I say.

We flop onto the bed together.  I smooth the tears off her face.  My heart aches for my perfectionist child.

"I'll never be able to turn!!"

"Well that's patently untrue."

"I won't!"

"You already have.  I've seen you do it.  You can't say that you'll never be able to do it, because you've already done it."

Her breath hitches in with fresh sobs.  We're on the precipice of of true irrationality here...  What I say next could make or break the situation.

"It's times like these," I say, "where you really need a shoulder gnome."

"A..." sniff, sniff...  "What?"

"Shoulder gnome.  It's a little gnome who sits on your shoulder and tells you when you should continue with something... or not."

Rissa's eyebrows meet in a scowl.

"So... you know... if you were... say, attempting to do something physically taxing at the end of a very long day, the shoulder gnome would grab you by the chin and say, 'Dude.  Now. Is. NOT. The. Time.'  And then if you try to ignore the shoulder gnome, it will slap you upside the face and say, 'Seriously.  I'm. NOT. Kidding. Around.  THIS. IS. A. BAD. IDEA.' "

The beginnings of smile touch the corners of her mouth.  Then she frowns again as she glances at the clock.

"It's SO late!  I still have to shower and I need to shave my legs."

"Why do you need to shave your legs tonight?"

"Because it's spring and I'm wearing capris now to school..."

"I can promise you that no one is going to notice your hairy ankles.  Besides, no one should be close enough to your ankles," I give her a pointed look, "to know that they're hairy.  Wait, unless they are the shoulder gnomes who have jumped down, then yes they will notice...They are notorious for noticing leg hair.   'Jerome - you won't believe the undergrowth this gal has on her stems!'  Then they'll come at you with their miniature scythes and cut down your crop of leg hair, carting it off for sale in the local shoulder gnome black market, where all things human go for ridiculous amounts of gold." 

And there it is, a real smile.

"Wait!  How is the shoulder gnome going to hold onto my chin?  They're just little."

I demonstrate with two of my fingers, indicating a shoulder gnome's arm length.  I move her chin from side to side.  "Do not underestimate the grasp of the shoulder gnome."

She laughs.  The tension in my chest eases.  She is back.   My pessimistic perfectionist has retreated.  I hug her, pressing my cheek to hers imparting through osmosis that our love is not dependent upon how well she turns, or whether she has an above 90 average or if her hair is straight  -  I can't say all that right now in case it sends her spiralling once more.  So instead I say,

"Love you hon."

"Love you too Mummy." 

That's why we need brown towels

We thought we'd experienced 'wet dog.'  We'd had a partial autumn with our new furry family member.  But  really?  Present April showers make last November's cold rain seem like puppy play. The wet dog stench, the splattered walls when you don't get to him before he shakes, the muddy footprints...  My grumbling mantra:

"I will not kill this dog, I love this dog, I want this dog, I will not kill this dog, I love this dog, I want this dog."

Torrential rain pour this morning.  Something David said to me as he kissed me during my teeth brushing stuck in my head.."Uh, hon?"
 
"Yes?"

"When you said you'd thrown the dog towel into the dryer to dry...?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you mean the really muddy one?"

"Yeah..."   He's sensing that something's up, I can tell by his voice.

"I'm just gonna maybe put in on top of an air vent instead," I say as I pull it from the dryer, where is has been tumbling... along with freshly washed tea towels and our kitchen rug...

David's eyes narrow, he'd been proactive, he was helping. "O...kay...?" (pause, two, three...) And then his eyes widen.  "OH...  Right."

I have a premonition:  I see us buying bulk hand towels in a muddy brown colour that we shall then place at every door.

Disney does Dress Porn

The most recent live-action retelling of Cinderella allows the viewer to get as up close and personal with red carpet style as one can get without attending the Oscars or Golden Globes.   I watched most of the movie with my mouth slightly open... it was Canada Day with silk and taffeta fireworks.  I've been told by almost all media outlets with any sort of feminist bent that I shouldn't have enjoyed the film.  And I'm definitely not supposed to lust over Sandy Powell's haute couture costume style, especially as it clads the body of the incomparable Cate Blanchett.

My mouth should not salivate at the swish of layers upon layers of princess tulle undulating on a dance floor.

And yet...

Upon watching the Cinderella ballroom scene, bibbidi-bobbidy-fucking-boo if I didn't want to swish across a parquet dance floor in layers upon layers of my own tulle-crinolined dress, in the arms of a man who knows how to truly lead.   I could feel my inner proactive feminist dying and I DIDN'T CARE.   

Sparkly blue princess dress...  Must have sparkly blue princess dress. 

I don't even like  princess dresses, but this dress? It hypnotized me. 

What the fuck???  

It's been drilled into our heads that corsets are bad for women, corset training is akin to binding feet.  Promlem is?   I love the feel of wearing one - I like how it lifts my girls up, gives me a breast-shelf at nearly chin level upon which I can eat.   I enjoy the feeling of containment while in a corset.  I like that my devolved sitting-in-front-of-a-computer posture can be brought back from its near-Neatherthal state while wearing a corset.   I like that my back fat disappears in one.  I don't want to wear one 24-7, but for special occasions?  I adore them.  I'm not saying every woman should wear one - but if they work for you?  If you're not destroying your internal organs when you wear them on occasion?  Go for it.

Most of these hand-drawn or computer-generated fairy tale female characters could never be imagined as human.  There was even speculation that Cinderella's waist in this version was CGI'd.  It wasn't.  In this live-action version (filmed almost shot for shot like the 1950 animated version), Lily James's already tiny real life waist is corseted, thereby shrinking it by another 5 inches, and pushing her boobs up to her armpits.  The dress's voluminous skirt then makes her tiny waist seem even tinier with its yards and yards of fabric floating around her hips.  Lily James did not go on a prolonged liquid diet as most headlines are screaming.

"When [the corset] was on we would be on continuous days so we wouldn't stop for lunch or a lovely tea like this—you'd be sort of eating on the move. In that case, I couldn't untie the corset. So if you ate food it didn't really digest properly and I'd be burping all afternoon in [Richard Madden]'s face, and it was just really sort of unpleasant. I'd have soup so that I could still eat but it wouldn't get stuck."  Source: E-News

This 'diet,' this particular dress, its corset and Lily James's waist have unfortunately smothered the message of the film with talk of too much tulle and boning. 

Cinderella's dying mother tells her to:

"Have courage and be kind."   

This credo, especially in our 2015 of net shaming and cyber bullying, is something to which all children should aspire.  Yes, I still wonder why Cinderella allows herself to be doormatted under the heels of her step-mother and step-sisters and yes, I still prefer the screenplay of  1998's Ever After,  which gives Drew Barrymore's character more... character...  But having courage and being kind?  How can anyone not want to share that notion with the children in our world?  It's a great way to live one's life... whether you dress in a corset or not.

Kitty Parkour

In our old house, which had six staircases (two to the basement, two to the 2nd floor, two to the attic), our three cats never laid across them.  They never lolled, never reclined, never became a stair obstacle.

Our new house with one staircase to the 2nd floor?  Is the cat equivalent to the local mall.  Our three beasts loiter for days upon these stairs.  They stretch, they 'downward dog,' they make it their day's work to create peril where once there was none.

  (Can you see three cats in these photos?  Neither could I.)

"HOLY FUCK!!!"

"What?  What happened?"  Rissa asks.

"Sorry!  Sorry.  I mean HOLY CRAP!!!"

"Why?  What's going on??"

"Cats!  EVERYWHERE!!!  As far as the eye can see - except the eyes CAN'T see them, at least not in the dark, on this staircase.  It's okay for Steve - he's an orange tom, but freakin' Minuit and Lola are black cats!  Do you know how difficult it is to see black cats on a staircase in the LESS THAN ADEQUATE LIGHT?!?"

"I know Mummy.  I know, just the other..."

"HOLY FUCK!!!"

"Daddy!

"Sorry!  Sorry!  CATS!   Why must ALL of the cats lie upon the stairs?"


ps.  This also happens...

Going blind in the Bingo Hall

Those of you who spend thousands of dollars a year so that your child might dance, play hockey, sing in a choir, partake in tae kwon do, horseback ride, be part of a softball, archery or swimming team - might be familiar with Hometown Bingo.  Hometown Bingo is legalized gambling where local groups/charities work each bingo and then the bingo hall distributes a percentage of that cash earned to each group/charity.  Yes, Hometown Bingo - where smoking has been banned for years, yet its lingering stench remains embedded in the DNA of the building and one can find at least adozen handicapped parking spots out front. 

David worked a shift one night and, upon his return home, immediately donated $50 to a gambling addiction charity.

"This is MESSED UP," he said.  "Those people look like they don't have two loonies to rub together and they are plunking down $50 on Bingo cards."

"I know.  Crazy."

My job at Hometown Bingo?  To run to those who call "BINGO!!!" and then convey the card number on their winning card to the bingo caller, by using my big-ass diaphragm to read them out:

"ONE!  SIX!  EIGHT!! THREE!!" 

"That is a good bingo.  Any others?  Going once, going twice... this game is now closed."

This bingo runner job is a tad more difficult to do when one has gone blind.  Not 100% blind, mind you, but 50% migraine-induced-travelling-blindness, taking out one's peripheral vision and making the rest of the world seem like Swiss cheese on LSD sort of blindness. This particular bout of blindness hit me unexpectedly,  possibly due to slightly flickering fluorescent lighting in the bingo hall.

I bent down to grab money from my purse and knew when my frontal lobe started feeling funky that I'd better reach for my drugs at the same time.  By the time I came out of my purse with a toonie for a Twix bar and two travel vials of drugs - my vision was abandoning me.  Sucking back some water, I easily swallowed the ibuprofen, but the round, red acetaminophen pills - three of them, I think - were stuck in the bottom of the travel vial.  I banged the container on my hand.  No luck.  I banged it on the desk.  Nope.  I found a plastic knife and tried to dig them out.  What I really needed was a skewer...  Fuck it!  I threw the vial on the floor behind the desk... after four tries, I finally heard the pills rattle loosely inside.  I had just managed to swallow two pills when I heard "BINGO!!!"

I looked up and tried to see where the voice had come from.  I couldn't see anyone's hand up.  Where was she?  Where was... There was a hand... over... there... I thought.  I started walking towards her, hoping that I wouldn't run into a pillar if it suddenly disappeared from my vision.  I walked as quickly as I could without losing my balance and approached the woman.  She proffered a small rectangular piece of paper.  This was not a bingo card, it was a Pick 8 receipt - about 4 x 3 inches.  I'd never had to read this type of card - what the hell was I supposed to do with it?

"Read the date," the woman whispered to me.

The date... the dancing, wobbly date...  "MARCH 23RD!"

"Read the session," she whispered again.

"The session?"

"Here...  evening."

"EVENING!!"

"You have to go over to another player and double check the numbers on the top."

"I have to what?"

The bingo caller  now jumped in, "You have to verify with another player."  Then I think she indicated moving somewhere with her chin - or her shoulder - might have been a breast...

I staggered over to another little old lady.

"You need to read these numbers here," she whispered, pointing.

Right.  Line after line of numbers all dancing before my eyes.   I opened my eyes very wide, hoping that might help.  Okay, I could do this.  The date was up at the top and the numbers were...  "Which numbers?"

"These, dear... 36..."

"36!!!"

"22"

"22!!!"

"19"

"19!!!"

"52"

"52!!!"

The little old lady was looking at me like I was on crack.

"13, 26, 35, 42..."

 "13, 26, 35, 42!!!"

"That is a good bingo.  This game is now closed."

 I couldn't see their looks of pity, but I could feel them.  And as I walked back to the desk I heard, "Poor dear, she can't read."

Thyroidosaurus vs Perimenopauseratops

WARNING:  Female issues will be discussed.  

You get to be a certain age of woman and you don't put up with as much shit anymore.  You've made it through early parenthood and you're still standing.  You've mostly got it down, you know what works and what doesn't.  You've developed a rhythm and that rhythm generally lets you get through the day, the week, the year.  You are at one with your body, mind and soul... ish.

And then you hit middle age and it all fucks up.

Used to be that women just kept their mouths shut.  Female 'issues' were not discussed in polite society.  As a result, generation upon generation of women had no one with whom they could commiserate.  We all just kept it bottled inside thinking we were going insane as our medical issues became conveniently labelled as 'hormonal'.  After you've been living in your body for a few decades, you pretty much know how it works.  When things don't seem normal?  They aren't.

You should NOT be losing hair in handfuls.  Take what ends up on the shower wall and show the doctor exactly how much you lose EVERY time you shower.  Offer up that guinea pig-sized example of 'normal' at eye level and then watch them try to dance out of it.

FYI - you should NOT be bleeding through three three pads or tampons in an hour.  You should not have to take a towel with you to sit on... anywhere... EVER.

You should NOT want to go to bed at 7:15 p.m.

In the 50s, women coped by drinking.  In the 80s, it was Valium.  Fast forward to 2015.  Most gals attempt to stay 'natural.'  HRT with its frenetic dance back and forth between between being a Godsend and causing cancer, scares the shit out of most women.  And although the conversation about mental health is becoming more public - often we strive to be self-sufficient women who can 'have it all,' remaining stoic in the face of major shifts in personality and health.

I seek and offer COMMISERATION.  My body is one brutal hormonal cocktail.  Between thyroid disease and peri-menopause, there are times I want to crawl the 163 feet to the back of my property, cover myself in a blanket of snow and become a cautionary tale for those who make the trek past me.  I exercise and exercise and exercise, I eat sensibly and still find myself  30  pounds overweight with back fat that, in my twisted self-image, I am convinced could feed a family of 12 for a week.  I pass blood clots the size of toonies through my hooha.  FUCKING TOONIES!!  I have days mired down in despair, panic, apathy and bone-crushing exhaustion.

I am one 46-year-old woman amongst billions.  There are BILLIONS of us.  You know what that means?  You're not alone.  We can be in this together.  We should be cognizant of the fact that we're all doing the best we can, treading water with a medical system that pooh-poohs women issues as something to 'get through.'

So here's my suggestion folks: everyone who has a child out there interested in medicine... encourage them become doctors, researchers.  Encourage them to specialize in women's health issues.  Encourage them to find the solutions - to support women's health, to foster a health care system that makes it easier to move through middle age if you happen to sport a vagina.  We exist in a world where our life expectancy allows us to become octogenarians, if not centenarians - wouldn't it be great if the last 30-50 years of ours lives didn't suck??

If I were a dude, would I be a douche?

"Rissa, if I were a dude, would I be a douche?" I ask - brushing through my hair after my morning shower.

"Pardon?"

"If I was a guy, do you think that I'd be the type of guy who'd be kind of douchey?"

"Other parents don't ask these questions."

"I just had this thought, is all."

"Imagining that you were a dude?"

"Well... yeah..."

"David!" I call out into the hall.  "If I were a dude, would I be a douche?"

"What did you just ask?"  He stops in the doorway.

"If I were a guy, would I be the kind of douchey guy who'd want to sleep with as many women as he could?  You know, leaving behind me a wake of broken hearts?"

"Are you that kind of woman now?"

"Well, no... but I do have a pretty high libido, so I'm thinking if I were a guy..."

"THANK YOU!" says Rissa.  "Seriously, NO other parents talk like this."

"Are we still married?" asks David.

"Well, no...I don't think so.  Would you then be gay?  Would I be gay?  I think I'm just some unmarried dude, possibly unable to commit, who digs chicks." 

"Do you think that your personality would completely alter if you were a guy?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking.   If I was a somewhat attractive dude, who knew that he was attractive, and women were falling all over themselves to be with me, would I let it go to my head and make my way through as many of those women as possible?"

"No."

"Okay.  Good.  Thanks."

"Glad I could clear that up for you."

My cat is stealing my drugs

"Have you seen my puffer?"

"I think it was in the bathroom."

"I've checked there."

"Have you checked on the kitchen table?"

"I've checked on the kitchen table.  I've checked under the kitchen table."

"Have you checked on the bathroom counter?"

"I've checked on the counter.  I've checked behind the counter.  I've checked in the cupboard above the stove.  Rissa!!!  Have you seen my puffer?"

"Have you checked the bathroom?"

"Yeah."

"I think that's where it was last.  Wait!  Have we figured out where Lola hides things in this house?"

At this point I turn to our cat Lola.   We have been in this house less than a year - we have yet to find her secret cache of toys.  You know, the toys that she decides are hers: the hair elastics, the sponges, the caps from pens, the bobby pins...  I pick her up.  Lola hates being picked up.  She gives a pitiful meow - if you were listening from the next room you would think that I am trying to  disembowel her.

"Dude.  The puffer.  I need it."  She meows again pitifully, but alas does not lead me to the drugs.

LATER - AT THE PHARMACY

"I think that my, uh, my cat stole my puffer."

The pharmacist doesn't even blink. "I'll give you the official receipt, but I don't think your insurance will cover  that."

Later, as I am about to seek out the replacement receipt - I hear and odd mechanical grinding noise.  It takes me a minute to place it - it is the paper shredder.

"Lola!!  Seriously??"

And now I have to take extra underwear to work...

"Not cool!  This is NOT cool!"  I exasperate.

"What?  What is it?"  David responds.

"I peed my pants FIVE  times today while coughing!!!"

"Oh hon... You'll do better tomorrow...  Tomorrow you can make it to six!"

"Do NOT make me laugh."  I have already crossed my thighs in preparation for any laugh leakage.

David and Rissa attempt to keep their faces blank.

"It is NOT funny!  You guys!!  I'm coughing ALL THE TIME!!!  I should have done more Kegels.  I did so many a decade ago and it's all gone to hell."  I try one while I standing.

"Are you Kegeling right now?" David asks.

"Yes."  I focus on my nether regions.

"You look terrified and like you're trying to do trigonometry at the same time."

"It makes me feel all squelchy.  I wonder if it's even possible to do rehab for your urethra this far after you've given birth."  (It is.)

"Mummy, I think, just in case, you should take extra underwear to work."

"I'd have to bring a 1/2 a dozen pairs!"

"You could always wear adult diapers..." David suggests helpfully.

"Dude."

He shrugs apologetically, then gives me a look.  "Are you Kegeling again?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out how to accessorize the maxi pad I'll be wearing in my underwear tomorrow."  I pause.    "Now I'm doing Kegels."



 

Her name is Lola - she self-Brazilians...

I'm not sure what we do to them, but eventually, all cats in our household run galloping towards madness.  We've had cats who spontaneously paralyze, suck on carpet and hiss at the doorbell.  Since we moved to the new house, Lola - sveltest of our felines - is now attempting to change breeds - she is licking herself hairless.

Evolution to Sphinx...

  I give her six more months... et... voila!!

Who needs psychedelic drugs...

... when you're in the midst of peri-menopause? They tell you about the sleep disturbances, the night sweats - all that great stuff - they don't tell you that your dreamscape will be a cross between Terry Gilliam and Wes Anderson.

Last night, Inigo Montoya was waxing my bikini line before he replaced my kneecaps with silver plating.  To be fair - Inigo Montoya had been featured on the Mindy Project and I had watched an episode of Bones while I was on the treadmill.  It is possible I've been watching too much Netflix.

For years, I'd had no dream retention and now... TECHNICOLOR dreams.  In one night I can have 4 or 5 major dream excursions.  Hopping between murder mystery and house-shopping, archaeology and  extreme haircuts - usually accompanied by night sweats - blankets off - then the chills as the sweat cools, so in your dream you're now naked in front of your Grade 9 Geography class, with only post-its to cover your interesting bits.

I awake bearing a grudge against David because in one of my panic attack-inducing dreams there's a demon child who throws a patio door at me.  Trying to scream - only managing a whimper in my sleep - David 'there-there'ing me in his sleep, one arm curving around my midriff, patting me ineffectually when what I really need is to be able to climb inside of him so that he can keep me safe.

"You don't protect me," I say petulantly over breakfast.

"I was asleep!"

"You were awake enough to recognize that I was crying, you patted me, but then you just went back to sleep."

"Next time it happens, you have my permission to wake me up and make sure that I understand the gravity of your situation."

"Wake you up violently?"

"If need be."

I smile.  "You love me."

"Yeah."

"Enough to take an elbow to the gut?"

"Yeah."







  

The common cold - anti-aphrodisiac...

"Ooooh... naked body..." says David as we hop into the shower together.  He presses himself against me.

"Dude."

"What?"  He lathers me suggestively.

COUGH.  COUGH.  HACK.  WHEEZE.  spit.

He stops momentarily.  "You okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great.  Lung butter up to my clavical, but I'm good."

"You know what would make you feel better?"  Without seeing him, I know that his eyebrows are waggling with innuendo.

"Being able to take a full breath into my lungs?"

"Well yes, but..."

HACK.  COUGH.  COUGH.  spit.

"Not nearly vomiting when I cough?"

"Well that too..."

"Having enough energy to walk up the stairs?"

"Yeah..."

COUGH.  COUGH. sniff.

"What if I just toweled you..."

COUGH.  COUGH.  stagger.  spit. COUGH.  HACK.

"You're really not better yet, are you?

"What was your first clue?"  HORK.  spit.

If my breasts were 22, this wouldn't happen!

"Just one more?  Please can't we watch just one more?" I beg.

"No Mummy.  We've already watched three episodes.  You're done," says Rissa.

I look over to David forlornly.

He shrugs.  "The kid has spoken.  It's bedtime for Bonzo."

I throw myself across their laps, wailing in dissatisfaction.  They are unmoved.  As I am lying across their laps, I look down at my chest.  My breasts have caved in.

"What the?!?"  I struggle up and look down again, poking at my chest.  The girls are up where they belong.

I lie back down sideways across Rissa, my gaze now chestward.  Dents.  My breasts have DENTS!!!  The padded t-shirt bra cups are DENTED!!

"What are you doing?" Rissa asks.

"My boobs have dents," I say, poking at them.  I move back to sitting.  "See this?  No dents!"  I lie across Rissa once more.   poke, poke...  "Now?  DENTS!!!" 

My spouse and child do their best not to laugh, but are unsuccessful.

"Not funny, guys!  NOT FUNNY.  This means that I have floppy breasts.  FLOPPY BREASTS!!!" No longer wailing because they won't let me watch another Mindy Project, I am now wailing in narcissism.

"It's okay Mummy," says Rissa patting my arm.  "No one will know."

"I...  I will know!!  And your father, because he sleeps with me when I am naked.  "My breasts are DEFLATING!!!"

"They are not deflating," says David.  "They are..."

"Don't you dare say aging!"

"I wasn't..."

"Or ripening..."

"How about...?" 

"Or curing..."

"Transforming??"

"Into what exactly?"

"...soft pillowy... butterflies?"

"Okay, I can get on board with that."

My get up and go has f@¢#ed off... how do women survive middle-age?

On the plus side?  I'm 46 years old and still alive.   If this were the Middle Ages, I'd be dead already, or close to dead, or, at the very least, a great-Grandma, with incredibly saggy boobs because they didn't have proper brassieres back then.

On the minus side?  The part of my brain that is proactive, gives me moxie, lights a fire under my ass?  It's fucked off.  At present, I feel as though my picture could be placed beside the word apathetic in the dictionary.

Hey look over there, it's a pile of clothes that's needed to be ironed for the last 5 months... I should... meh...

I'm not saying that I was a 'get it done right now' gal - not like my friend Nathalie, who would buy something at a junk shop to turn into a chandelier and then the next day it would be spray-painted, wired and fucking lit up in her dining room - that wasn't me... but it didn't used to take me 10 frickin' months to hem a set of curtains. 

And although I know that I have a a couple of things working against me (thank you ever so much, thyroid disease and peri-menopause), on bad days, I am convinced that  I have morphed into a giant, corpulent, reticulated slug.

INT. JABBA'S LAIR

JABBA 

Have you met my sister? 
(cut to closeup of slightly younger female Hutt) 
She is renowned throughout the universe for her
excessive weight and sallow colour.

Checking out the back of my hair in the mirror, I have to quell the urge to self nip and tuck... "Okay, seriously??  How many rolls of back fat can a girl have surrounding her bra??"  Then you play the how can I look fine from the front, but utter shit from the back? game - rotating in front of the mirror like you're a car on a  pedestal revolve at an auto show.

I get home from work and it's all that I can do to walk over to the refrigerator to see if we have vegetables in the crisper.

I don't think my Mom went through all this shit. Yes, hot flashes - she flashed for years and years and years... but she didn't bitch out, she didn't crawl into bed at 8:00 p.m. and she sure as shit didn't resort to grilled cheese sandwiches with a side vegetable of pickles several times a week.  Oh, don't mind my daughter, the malnutrition will right itself when she's in university on a proper meal plan.

Overwhelmed is a constant.  I was at the grocery store on Saturday and found myself near tears in the canned goods aisle.  Too many people, too many colours, so much to consume...  How many children in the world can't have cereal?  What are they using to clean their floors?  That person has 17 items in the 16 item lane!!!  If I've been out in public, David generally meets me at the door with a cocktail.  He sits me down, wraps me in a blanket and stands guard for the emotional implosion. 

This hormonal shift is akin to when I was in adolescence - but now there's an added level of soul-crushing despair and self-loathing that I have to mask in front of the public.  Jazz hands Heather, keep up those jazz hands!

Big things?  They ain't happening.  It's time to refocus on the minutia of joy.   Tying on an apron to successfully finish cooking a meal that involves more than bread and cheese is a win.  And last night? I emptied the ironing basket - and not just by hiding it in a bag somewhere else in the house.  I dusted my bedside lamp, reorganized the face cloth basket, I mended a sweater of Rissa's that had been waiting for a year and a half.  By accomplishing  the seemingly inconsequential - I may just keep myself out of the nuthouse.

Why yes, this IS what middle-aged hair looks like...

"Heather, what do you want for... HOLY CRAP!!!" says David as he sticks his head behind the shower curtain.  He's reacting to the shower wall, upon which I have left all the 'extra' hair from my head.  And by 'extra' hair, I mean the hair that I regularly lose when I wash my hair. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

I glance to the wall.   "Oh, this?"  I shrug.    "This is pretty much normal."  I scoop it up and offer it to him, a hamster-sized practical example of what happens when you're a middle-aged woman in peri-menopause with thyroid disease.  He shrinks back a titch.

"No, I think I'm good."

"By March Break we could make another ME - out of hair," I suggest.  "Which I will then sell to the AGO and become ridiculously wealthy and famous."

He nods mutely and backs away.

I go back to conditioning my hair.  I've never had silky, manageable hair.  My hair never bounced and behaved.  It has always been coarse and disorderly and then after I had kids, it went curly with the coarse and disorderly.  If I brush it out I resemble Rosanne Rosannadanna.

The incomparable Gilda Radner...

But on the plus side, I now feel an odd kinship with Pamela Anderson.  Although I'm less leather corset and more just barbed wire on my head.  Almost 30 years of hair dying and strangely my hair is... dry...   I've been hanging out in the alley behind the beauty shop...

"Psssssssst.... Hey... HEY!!!  Can you slip me some deep conditioner?"

I Google up on how to deep condition and apparently, I have to find another 15 minutes in my day to sit under a bonnet hair dryer with a plastic bag on my head allowing my hair to suck up moisture.

Wait a second!  I actually own a bonnet hair dryer!  And 15 minutes?  There's gotta be 15 minutes somewhere in my day!  And I'm supposed to sit during that 15 minutes?  That's a requirement?  Oh sweet Jesus, I could sit and read... an actual book!! Because you know, I 'd be trapped under the hair dryer and all...  I could have a book in one hand and a cocktail in the other!!!

If my hair weren't in such terrible shape, deep conditioning would make it greasy...  Because my hair is such crap, I will now be required to read and drink alcohol.  15 minutes??  Hell, I'll make it 30!   Watch out world!  My hair will soon be so smooth and soft that I will injure myself and others when I whip it around as I travel in my own imagined deep conditioning commercial.

Who let the dwarves into my uterus?!?

WARNING: There will be foul language in this post.

MOTHERFUCKING DWARVES.*  I'm sorry, but... REALLY...   REALLY?!?  I'm sure that the lining of my uterus is chock-a-block with rich mineral deposits which can be sold at a premium on the Disc World, but I would just like to state for the record that I did NOT give my permission for a team of mining dwarves to bring their motherfucking pick axes into my uterus to collect its bounty.

At the very least, the little rat bastards could give me a cut.  If the (WARNING: TMI) 2 and a half inch blood clot, which they apparently spent the entire night chipping away, is worth so fucking much - I deserve at least 75% of the take when they sell that fucker to the black market.

I am sure that peri-menopausal blood clots hold a certain cachet - maybe the sick twisted pricks who buy them from the motherfucking dwarves eat them à la placenta ingestion...  I don't give a cat's fragrant ass who is doing what with them, I just want my fucking cut.

There are a lot of us out there gals - if we unionize, I'm sure that we can negotiate a more than fair business contract.

2, 4, 6, 8 - OUR FEMALE BITS AREN'T YOURS TO TAKE!

WHAT DO WE WANT?  COMPENSATION!!
WHEN DO WE WANT IT?  WE'LL FUCKING DECAPITATE YOU!! 

*I choose to go the Tolkien route - not the Disney route

It all comes down to chicken vaginas...

"So what did you do in school today?"

"We had a work period in English."

"Journal entries for your ISU?"

"Yep."

"Oh, and in Geography we got to watch a video."

"What kind of video?"

"A video about sewers.  It's called Crap Shoot."

"Seriously?"  I burst into laughter.  "Madame showed you a video about sewers and it was called Crap Shoot?  That's freaking brilliant!"

"Not only that, but this is the second time I've seen it."

"I'm sorry?"

"I've seen it twice now."

I almost pee my pants.  "You've seen Crap Shoot twice?"

"Yes.  Last year in Science Class.  But that's not even the best part."

"There's a better part than just getting to watch a documentary about sewers called Crap Shoot?"

"There's this big sewer in Rome, one of the earliest sewers ever, and it's called the Giant Chicken Vagina."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's called the Cloaca Maxima - which is latin for Giant Chicken Vagina."

I snort.  "You're making this up!!"

"I am NOT!"

"This was in the documentary?"

"No, Connor just knows this because she lives on a farm.  A cloaca is part of the reproductive tract - pretty much a chicken vagina."

"So Cloaca Maxiuma would be...?"

"Giant Chicken Vagina."

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!

"What is going on up there?" asks David from the kitchen below us.

"Clo...clo... a....ca... Max... i... ma!"  My stomach hurts from laughing now. "Seriously??" I ask.

"Seriously.  Connor and I almost got kicked out of class last year because we were laughing so hard.  This year, Connor isn't in Geography class with me, so I had to keep the hilarity inside."

Even better?  I get to recount this to David when I go downstairs.  He too, was impressed with a sewer documentary called Crap Shoot.

"Hey Rissa!" I yell upstairs.

"Yes?"

"Cloaca Maxima!!"

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA!!!!"

Cat Lap Dance...

Minuit, the oldest and most crotchety of our cats has a predilection for lap dances.  Not the pervy receiving of...  it's not like she's hanging around at the Brass Rail with $5 bills in her paws, waggling her eyebrows at the dancers.  This cat, this 6 year old, overweight feline... she gives a kick-ass, albeit slightly disturbing, lap dance.

Seconds after you sit on any sofa in our house, Minuit appears.  She wends her way over the arm of the sofa and begins her descent lapward.  She'll take a moment before slowly placing one paw at a time upon any and all available thighs.  On occasion, she has been known to straddle two laps, front paws on one and back on another.  Then, the kneading begins.  It's usually at this time that David says 'I'm out!'  and shifts her to my lap.

This morning, as Rissa snuggled up to me on the family room couch, Minuit bestowed her lap dance upon us.

"WHOA!!  NOT COOL MINUIT!!" from the kid.  Rissa turns the cat around so that her front paws are now on my lap.

As Minuit once more displays her mad kneading talents, Rissa cuts me a glance. 

"What?" I ask.  "I'm just trying to figure out how we can make money off this ability."

"You're so gross."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'practical'."