And then we were carjacked...

Driving towards Rissa's university residence, we blithely follow the directions offered by the nice young people in their bright orange safety vests.

"Just drive around there folks, and they'll help you out."

I'm a bit confused - we are still relatively distant from her Residence. But we do it, we drive through the parking lot towards the dozen or more colourfully clad students. "Oh look there's a welcoming committee, isn't that..."

Clapping, stomping and whooping, these hoodlums swarm our Honda Civic.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"What's going on?!?" asks Rissa.

"They are apparently encouraging you to leave the car," David posits.

Our "Welcoming Committee" comes closer, faces at the window, yelling to a decibel level that, moments before, would have seemed impossible.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"Oh, crap!  Crap, I guess I'd better get out!" Rissa departs the vehicle.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" The students explode with joy.

"I've got her!" says a young man in face paint and a dozen bandannas wrapped around his limbs. "You just drive up there and the guy in the vest will tell you when it's safe to go."

"When it's safe to go?"

"What's her name?" asks another student.

"Rissa..."

"RISSA!!" she yells as she checks off the name.

"RISSA!!!!!" Everyone else yells.

A sharpie scrawls onto a pre-printed, university-issue, green paper. "Here's her room number, you drive up to the Res. We've got your daughter." She hands us the piece of paper "Don't lose it or you'll never know where she is." She laughs.

They've got our daughter?  What the fuck just happened here?

We drive up to the guy in the vest.

"Is everything..."

"You just drive up there and we'll take care of everything." He smiles reassuringly.

"So she's just..."

"He's got her. She'll get there."

O...kay. We drive towards the Res.

"RIGHT THROUGH HERE FOLKS! RIGHT THROUGH HERE!!" Music is blaring, new packs, larger packs, of university students bounce up and down in excitement.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!? WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!?"

We show them the green paper.

"IS IT OKAY IF WE UNLOAD YOUR CAR?" a spokesperson yells.

"Uh... yeah, yeah... sure... it's okay."

"POP THE TRUNK!!! ALL RIGHT... LET'S GOOOOOOOOO!!!"

(Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I was recently diagnosed with Endolymphatic Hydrops - an inner ear disorder that affects the fluid in the ear canals. Some of the symptoms make me super sensitive to sound, which, in turn, makes me dizzy and nauseated. Usually this isn't an issue outside, unless it's incredibly loud.)

I stagger out of the Civic. So much yelling. Music SO loud. I grasp blindly for anything to help me regain my balance - finally finding the car's side mirror.

Equilibrium regained... now I can help with the... I do a cartoon double-take to the back of the car. Everything's gone. All Rissa's stuff is GONE - two shopping carts are disappearing into the Res. They took my daughter and now they've taken all her stuff! I start to hyperventilate.

David is commends everyone on their organization and energy. I can't breathe.

"You guys are fantastic!! Can we get a picture?"

A picture? He wants a picture of these people?!?

"ALL RIGHT! YOU FOLKS CAN HEAD OUT NOW."

Head OUT? But we haven't... I haven't...

"PARKING LOT IS LOCATED HERE." The university-issue paper with Rissa's room number is turned over and we are shown a map to parking. "THIS ACTS AS YOUR PARKING PASS. YOU GO PARK NOW!"

We get back in the car. David says, "Wow - that was amazing! They are like a well-oiled..." He looks at my face. "Love...?"

Tears... streaming down my cheeks, I shake my head. "I'm just going to..." I reach into my purse for my emergency ear plugs. "I'm just going to put these in."

We drive away from the Res. I have no idea where Rissa is. I have no idea where her stuff is. I succumb to a few moments of hiccupping sobs before I get my shit together. Eventually, I blow out a calming breath.

"You okay?"

I nod. "They took her. Then they took her stuff. We were car-jacked."

"Oh love..."

"No, it's okay," I say. "It really is okay. It's amazing. You're right they ARE a well-oiled machine. It's  wonderful for all these kids to have such excitement, such joy when they arrive at school. I was just... I was... unprepared for it, is all."

***

The week leading up to this day provides me with the opportunity to do the best acting I've ever done in my life. She's so excited to get going - every day is a new thing that she's thrilled to talk about. All her Frosh Week activities, the messages on her chat groups... each thing has a new superlative outdoing the one before it. She practically vibrates with anticipation. I respond positively to everything.

"It's so great that you're so excited for this!" I feel like I'm going to vomit. "Really? They'll have a carnival? That's great!!" I'm this much closer to death. "Yes, this is going to be the BEST THING EVER. Yay!!" My heart... my heart is... breaking.

***

I manage to stop the tears before we exit the car. Now in a full-fledged hydrops attack, I clutch David's arm so that I don't fall off the world as we walk back to the Res. I watch as other shell-shocked parents listen to the cheers and chanting and see their child's belongings disappear into the Res. We get directed to her floor and are greeted in the stairwell by another dozen excited students, this time chanting:

"PARENTS ON THE MOVE! PARENTS ON THE MOVE!!"

They're clapping and hooting. David has one arm and I'm clinging to the banister with my left hand; even with the earplugs firmly inserted, I'm so dizzy I feel like I could double for Sandy and Danny in the Shake Shack.

As we descend those stairs, the kids eventually notice that this particular parent is not so much "on the move," but instead, looks like she's going to keel over... or vomit... or both. They tone it down. I smile/grimace at them in thanks.

We get to Rissa's dorm, and knock politely. She bounds to the door Tigger-like, grabbing us both in a huge hug. And her smile? It could light up the galaxy. "HI GUYS!!!" She immediately goes back to unpacking her clothes. "I think I'm going to need more hangers. Can we get more hangers? I thought I'd counted them all, but somehow I think I don't have enough."

I rest on her bed and watch for a moment. I watch this person who grew in my body. This person I snuggled with, even last night, as we watched a movie together. This person I love so much, that our  impending departure at the end of the day is already making me feel like my organs will liquify. I  feel the panic creep into my chest and I close my eyes for a moment to regain my equilibrium.

And then I start helping her unpack.

Careful what you say over pancakes.

David, Rissa and I are enjoying our weekly Sunday pancake breakfast.

"These are great!" says Rissa. "The texture is magnificent!"

We've been trying to perfect gluten-free pancakes for the past several years. It's been hit or miss.

"Yeah," says David, chewing on his maple syrup-soaked pancake. "These are the ones. We've done it! Which is great, because these breakfasts are soon going to be a thing of the past."

I swallow my bite of pancake. My throat tightens. Moisture fill my eyes.

Rissa looks at my face. "Dude!" she says to David. "What did you just do?"

If someone were filming this moment, there would be a well-timed shot of a single tear sliding down my cheek.  Suddenly Rissa is no longer living at home with us. She's at university. She's graduated university. She's living in a different city. She's married and has kids but we only see her twice a year, because she's so busy and has so many commitments. "No more family breakfasts?"

David's eyes are wide. "No! I mean..." He shoots Rissa a panicked look. She shakes her and gives him a "you're the one who said this" eyebrow raise. He reaches over and takes my hand.  "No, we'll still have lots of Sunday breakfasts."

"No," I say. "We won't, actually. You're right. I've got The Cat's in the Cradle playing through my head. I know that it's not really completely appropriate to this situation, but the... end... of the song... that kid who now doesn't have time for his Dad...?" There is more than a single tear now.

"Awwww... Mama," says Rissa. "It's okay. We'll still do Sunday breakfasts."

"But not every Sunday! Not if we're living in different cities! And I know that life is like that. I know that. And I know that we don't see Mor-Mor and Far-Far all that often because we live far from them, but it's different because they had two kids and weren't as hands on and really didn't care when I left home, hell they wanted me to leave home, were wondering why I hadn't yet, but we really like you and like spending time with you and..." I can't continue speaking.

Rissa's taken my other hand. "Mama. It's okay. I promise we'll still have breakfasts. They won't be all the time, but we'll still have them. Just like we have them when we're at Mor-Mor and Far-Far's."

"Yeah?" I sniff, before wiping my eyes with my pajama sleeve.

"Yeah." She turns to David. "You can't just say shit like that. I mean, seriously! She's fragile!"

Turns out? I'm that Mom. If we had a problem child going through her teenage years in a funk of eye rolling with a side of whiny sarcasm, peppered with irrational outbursts, we'd be opening the door for her, we'd be packing her bags.

This is what you get for having a functional relationship with your daughter. Spontaneous fits of weeping over gluten-free pancakes.

YouTube University

"Do you think there are videos on YouTube on how to do minor surgery?" I ask David.

"No," David says with a note of finality in his voice.

"No?"

"No, you may not do minor surgery on yourself."

"Don't be silly. I wouldn't do minor surgery on myself."

David's eyebrows rise as high as they possibly can on his forehead. "No?"

"No."

"Good," he says, obviously relieved.

"Of course I wouldn't do that. Well, really, couldn't do it, not well at least."

David closes his eyes and shakes his head.

I know that with logic, I can make a good argument. "You, though, YOU could totally learn how to do minor surgery and do it on me. It could be like those scenes in Travelers when David does home spinal taps for Marcy."

"No."

"It just doesn't make sense for me to do it."

"It doesn't make sense that you perform minor surgery on yourself?!?"

"Well not in this area, it doesn't," I explain patiently.

"What area? What could you possibly want to remove from your body?"

"My armpit pudge. Nay, verily, my armpit boobs," I say. "I have had armpit boobs ever since I've had breasts. And no matter how much I exercise, no matter how healthfully I eat, no matter how many pounds I lose..." I poke my left armpit boob.   "I still..."  I poke my right armpit boob. "Have..." I cross my body and poke both of them.  "Armpit boobs."

I am apparently speaking in a foreign language. There is no comprehension on David's face. I'm sure that I can get through to him.

"And I know that all it would take is a little 'zip-zop' underneath my pits, a little detail nozzle suck with the Shop Vac and BOOM! They'd be gone."

David opens his mouth to speak. He closes it. He opens it again. "What can I say to dissuade you of your commitment to this plan? Hey! Remember when you were learning to decorate gingerbread houses from YouTube videos? Can we go back to that? Please?"

And that's why you need to know your prices...

If I'm walking funny today, it's because I've been well and truly fucked. $13.38 folks.  I spent $13.38 on 1.365 kg of gluten free flour.* I thought I was doing the right thing, I really did. I thought that buying all purpose, gluten free flour at the Bulk Barn had to be cheaper than getting the Robin Hood all purpose gluten free flour at No Frills. It's BULK for fuck's sake!

Yes, I should have known better.  I've been burned by the Bulk Barn before. I've come out with a handful of pecans and a bill for $17.72, I've spent $25 to decorate a $5.25 gingerbread house. 

Used to be that I'd buy 5 different types of gluten free flours/starches at the Bulk Barn and mix 'em all up at home in my big-ass mixing bowl - rice/corn/sorghum/potato/tapioca residue coating my already pasty white body.  After filling glass jars with my newly amalgamated all-purpose flour, I'd jump into the shower - a gluten free, sticky mess. But lately, I've been lazy. Like teenaged sloth lazy. I've been buying the Robin Hood flour at No Frills during my regular shop for an astonishing $6.49 for 907 g.  

"Highway robbery!!" I would say to myself every time it landed in my shopping cart. Though the ease, and frankly, cleanliness, of not having to mix the flours on a Sunday morning before a batch of homemade pancakes was totally worth it. It'd given up my bulk mix dreams.

But last night, I had to go to the Bulk Barn anyway. You know, for macaroni cheese sauce and apparently... popcorn salt, because it caught my eye and I'm in a constant state of salt craving.  Before I knew it, I was sashaying down that gluten free aisle.  I'll just look, I thought. I'll comparison shop. Trouble is, because my middle-aged/peri-menopausal brain can no longer retain information, I couldn't remember the Robin Hood cost per 100 grams (even though I specifically looked at it on Monday at the grocery store), nor could I actually remember how many grams were in Robin's relatively tiny bag.

Turns out? Big Baking has beat Bulk. That Robin Hood bag of gluten free flour with xanthan gum already mixed in? It's 20 cents cheaper per 100g than buying bulk flours at the Bulk Barn. I would have actually SAVED money, had I spent that money at the grocery store.

Paying through the nose for specialty ingredients and then paying an extra fucking $2.76 at a place that is supposed to save a gal money?!?

*calming breath*

Okay. It's only $2.76 more. Put into my evidently hormonal perspective, it's less than a Fleur de Sel Lindt bar on sale at Shopper's Drugmart. I'm still saving money by baking from scratch even with Bulk Barn's exorbitantly priced, ready-made flour melange. That flour in my cupboard will be able to make at least four pancake breakfasts, several dozen cookies and assorted other baked goods - which if I were to purchase already baked, gluten-free goods, would be 2 boxes of Wow's Key Lime cookies. Don't even get me started on what a pre-made loaf of bread 1/3 the size of a regular  loaf of bread will cost you, I just got my blood pressure down.

*For those who believe that gluten free is just a fad/scam and doesn't really have an effect on people and I could be saving many dollars simply by not using gluten free flour in the first place?  Watch me eat a hotdog in a white bun.  I'll be high after 3.5 minutes. It will last about 1/2 an hour and then I start crying. It's a favourite thing for my boss to watch at company BBQs.

DO NOT DIS COHEN

Rissa and I love IZombie.  We love when Liv cooks the brains each episode.  We love when Major's personality transforms after eating mind candy. We love the theme song, the bad puns, the comic panels.

And then Blaine says, "I was singing Hallelujah... the Jeff Buckley tune..." Which is when I lose my shit.

"COHEN!!  IT'S FUCKING COHEN!!!"

"What?" asks Rissa, thinking I've lost my mind.

"He means Hallelujah  written by Leonard FUCKING Cohen! Jeff Buckley did a COVER - a fantastic cover, but it was a FUCKING cover!!"

"Whoa, simmer down there Mama."

"How can they? Grrrrrr....."  grumble, grumble, grumble.

"Mama - seriously it's..."

"No, what if this is like the moment on New Girl when they dissed Birdman and I couldn't respect the writers any more?"

"What if it's just because of Blaine's memory loss that he can't remember that it's Cohen and this is a very in-crowd joke?"

"Then they made the WRONG fucking joke!  Buckley's version is too old.  If you're going to make it a joke for folk-rock fans, they should have said, 'I was singing Hallelujah... the Pentatonix Tune...' which came out 2016 and would have completely let the audience KNOW that it was a joke as opposed to the way they did it, mis-attributing it to Buckley, whose version is, I freely admit, pretty fucking close to perfect, but you don't DENY Cohen's songwriting skills - the dude is a genius!!!  And he's BARELY FUCKING dead!  Even fucking SNL did an obscure tribute to the guy!!!"  snort, grumble, snort.

"Wow," says Rissa. "You weren't kidding when you said you're a little moody with your unexpected period."

There's the possibility that my hormones have hijacked my higher brain function.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

"We're really doing this?" asks David.

"I'm willing to try anything," I respond.

"All right, lie down."

He pulls the sheet over me before hefting up a weighted blanket.  Filled with 8 lbs of plastic beads, the blanket is deliciously cool against my body despite its weight.

I am forgoing a sleeping pill so that I that the results from this experiment will not be skewed.  If the weighted blanket relaxes me enough and stays cool enough, perhaps the night sweats won't come. Gratified with the sense of well being, I fall into a deep sleep...

Which lasts until my core temperature apparently melts all the little plastic beads and I find myself trapped under a molten weighted blanket pretty fucking sure that I'm being buried alive.

"GAH!!!  OFF!!  OFF!!!"  I kick and claw at the weighted blanket until it falls to the floor.

"Too much?" says David from beside me, reading a book on his phone.

"Too much!  I've melted the beads."

"I don't think that's possible love. Do you want a cool pack?"

"No, I don't want a cool pack!" I say petulantly.

"Do you want me to set up the fan and you can turn it on if you get too hot?"

"NO, I DON'T WANT A FAN!  I WANT TO SLEEP.  NIGHT SWEATS ARE AN EVOLUTIONARY DESIGN FLAW!!! HOW CAN THIS POSSIBLY BE USEFUL TO HUMANITY?!?"

"Would you like..." he begins, grasping at any straw to help ease my discomfort.

I take a breath. 

"I want to thank you," I say apologetically, clutching his hand, even though the feel of his warm skin makes me want to jump out the fucking window.  "I want to thank you for everything that you've done and do for me.  I want you to know that I am incredibly grateful for your support during this trying time, and I will do all that I can to continue to earn your support."

"Would you like to acknowledge the other nominees too?"

"Yes.  And I would like to..." I pause as a wave of heat-induced nausea hits me. I sprint to the bathroom. "GRAVOL!!"

"Take a sleeping pill too," he suggests.

I swallow two Gravol with two glasses of water, trying to recoup the liquids that I've lost through my sweating.  "Do not take any other sedatives with this medication," I yell to him as I read the label.

There's a pause as we both consider what the odds of my overdosing would be if I ingest a sleeping pill after two Gravol.

I climb back into bed.  "I will wait another two weeks to see if the natural herbs begin to work and then I'm going on HRT."

"Yeah?" David says, lying close, but not touching me.  He's been with me for the last 6 weeks. And he was here for the bout of night sweats last spring. He knows, insofar as a man who can't possibly know, what I'm going through. He knows that I'm perilously close to completely losing my shit.

"Yes. If my choice is to go the natural route and not sleep for possibly decades or to take HRT and cut my life short with associated risks to HRT?  I'm willing to give up those years and remain a relatively sane member of society with a sense of humour."

He takes a breath to say something, rethinks, then blows cold air all over my face.

"Imagine," I say.  "Imagine the worst sweaty balls that you have ever experienced.  But this bag sweat is so hot that your hand nearly burns if you touch them.  Those sweaty balls soak your boxers 5 times a night and make you want to puke your guts up every time."

He pales.

"And every time it happens you have a panic attack. Every single time."

"Whatever you want to do love, I'm with you."

Who let the lava queen in?

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh."

"Hmmm?  What?"  yawns David, before falling back asleep almost instantaneously.

It's 1:30 a.m. Moments ago I was curled next to David, really loving being the Big Spoon.  Now I am temperature of the sun.

The Lava Queen by Wasudo (Deviant Art)

Covers off.   I'm sweating from every pore in my torso...  neck...  scalp.  Ugh.  The Lava Queen is back and she's doing a floor show of excretion.  I stagger to the bathroom, drink two glasses of water, then lean against the sink, panting from my near self-inflicted drowning.

It's my own damned fault.  I had two drinks this evening.  One at dinner and then a Rusty Nail as a nightcap.  Too much alcohol.  Plus I'm on these stupid pills to regulate my period which I think are just fucking my hormones over.  Double whammy there.   Stupid.  It's been a few months since I've been hit this hard.   I thought it was done.  More the fool me.

No problem.  I'll just snuggle back into bed now that I'm cooler and... the sheets are all damp.  I look over at David.  Can I possibly re-sheet the bed with him still in it?  Unlikely. Fuck it.  If I have another flash, the cold sheets will feel fantastic.  See that?  Silver fucking lining.

The only problem is when I start to make the bed in the morning.  I probably shouldn't make the bed with wet sheets.  I could leave the covers off all day and then make the bed right before I go to sleep, or...

"Why are you taking the blow dryer into your bedroom?" asks Rissa.

"MacGyvering."

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.

Warning: descriptive female issues in this post.

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF..." 

"What is it?"

"Day Eight apparently."

"Are we in the playoffs?"

My baleful eyes could burn through steel.

"I am BLEEDING out.  I was done.  The Diva Cup was empty."

David winces in naive male sympathy/horrified visualization.  "And now the cup runneth over?"

"No the cup does not runneth over because I wasn't wearing the frickin' cup because my body is a lying liar pants and can't make its peri-menopausal mind up!  IT WAS EMPTY THIS MORNING!!!"   I raise my fist to the 2nd floor bathroom where the Diva Cup is now residing.  "YOU WERE EMPTY!!!"

I ease off the couch and look down - at least there's no blood on the upholstery.  I carefully glide my way to the bathroom, crossing my fingers that I'll only have to wash my panties, not the jeans as well.  I don't know why washing jeans seems to add insult to injury, but it does.

I stand before the toilet, Keigeling every muscle in my pelvis.  I take a deep breath before undoing my belt.  As soon as I sit to examine the undergarment damage, I feel another deluge.

"COME ON!!!"

"Love?  You okay?"

"They're the size of TOONIES!"

"What are?"

"The blood clots that just left my body."  A blinding cramp hits me.  I don't know if the blood loss is actually making me dizzy or if it's having witnessed most of my uterine lining leave my body.

David pipes up from the living room.  "It could be worse."

"How?!?"

"They could be blood clots the size of tunas."

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.  Without laughter my sanity would have abandoned me years ago.

The reason for all those baby/kitten/puppy videos #2016Election

The stress of the 2016 Presidential election has my lower intestines in Stevedore Stopper knots.  I'm not even American.  The outcome of the election won't really affect me as someone north of the 42nd.  I mean, apart from all the anti-Hillary Republicans who are threatening to move to Canada should the Democrats win and the anti-Trump Democrats/Independents who are threatening to move to Canada should the Donald win.

If Trump wins and he builds a wall across the US/Mexican border - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and it turns out there are even MORE emails that she didn't safeguard appropriately -  it won't affect me.  If Trump wins and throws Hillary into jail - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and raises taxes on wealthy Americans - it won't affect me. If Trump wins and he repeals the Clean Air Act - it won't... wait a second...  If Hillary wins and there is a Second Revolutionary War - it won't... uh... I'm really close to that northern border.

It's the end of the world as we know it!! 
Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths... 

Hey everyone look! Baby ostrich racing cars.






And these are ANIMALS jumping on TRAMPOLINES!

Kittens and puppies with babies!

Dogs meeting kittens for the first time.

It's a baby who laughs when you tear paper!

And then if you really start freaking out and you need to take control back - channel your inner Jesse Jane McParland.

And that's why menopause makes you crazy...

It's come to this: I am now answering Facebook quizzes in my own head. Without the computer.  And not the normal ones like:

Which Disney Princess are you? 
Which Shakespearean character would you be?
What breed of cat are you?

Nope, this mostly Pagan gal has this one pin-balling around her cranium:

Which Bible character is your alter-ego?

We've got to go to Judges 16 for that one.  Samson.  I am Samson.  Delilah cut Samson's hair and he lost his great strength - his power.  I cut my hair and lost my mind.

It's been a swift ride to Crazy-Town for Heather.  I got my hair cut 3.5 weeks ago and in that time all rational thought has departed.  I was getting ready for a wedding with the new 'do' on Saturday and I could actually feel my sanity abandoning me.  Rissa went to get David.

"Uh, Daddy?"

"Mmmm-hmmm?"

"Mummy's, uh..."  (I can only assume Rissa made the 'she's batshit crazy' gesture beside her own head here.)

David came upstairs and found me weeping; a curling iron clenched in one hand and sweat dripping down my spine.

"Oh love, what is it?"

"This HAIR!" I wailed.

"You're beautiful.  You're always beautiful."  He stood behind me, attempting to smooth my shoulders down and press a hug against my back.

I pulled away violently.  "NO!  I'm NOT!  I look like fucking BOZO the CLOWN!!!"

I could see it then.  I could see the look of concern in David's eyes - the wondering if this was it - if this was the moment I had finally given in to insanity.

"But love, you've been fine this past week.  You liked your new hair."

"I was LYING!!  I HATE it!  I HATE this hair!  I want to shave it off and start wearing wigs until I can put it in a pony tail again!!" You know when you really lose your shit and you have an out-of-body experience watching yourself do it?  That. 

 Dozens of people have complimented me on my hair.

"It makes you look 15 years younger!" 
"You look so sassy!" 
"It's adorable!" 

They are ALL - every single one them - LYING to me.  I try to be good and politely accept the compliment.  I really do.  I smile and nod, ready to move on and behave like a normal tamped down human being, but then they ask "Do you LOVE it?" and I can't keep my irrational mouth shut. Brutally honest, I spout colourful invectives, minutes-long vituperation which, naturally, takes people aback.  That, plus my wild-eyed cuckoo-banana-ness.  Because really?  What person actually says how they're truly feeling?  We're not supposed to do that.  Most of time, I can playact when a person asks a direct question.   But for some reason this hair thing has caused me to lose the ability to deliver bland social conversational norms with any believability.  My inner truth tap switched to ON when I lost 10 inches of hair.

But I didn't fucking LOSE the hair!  I am not on chemo, I do not have alopecia!  I ASKED for something shorter.  It's not like the stylist went rogue, tied me down, gagged me and madly began chopping - I'd been toying with going shorter for years.  The problem was that pretty much as soon as she started to take it off the top, I knew I'd made the wrong choice.  I left the salon thinking "Okay, in a year I can grow 6 inches of this back."  And no matter how many people love the 'do,' no matter how much my husband smiles and says he loves kissing the back of my neck - something was lost for me.

"I look like a MOM!"

"You are a Mom."

"But I LOOK like one.  I feel MA-A-A-AAAAAA-TRON-LY!!!!!"

And that's what it really comes down to.  I had long curly auburn hair that turned heads and now I don't turn heads - unless I'm walking with my 16 year old daughter who is always turning heads - which is somehow worse because at first you think they might be turning heads to look at you and then you realize Nope - this head-turning is not for me at all.  I cut my hair and I am now an invisible, middle-aged woman.  The male gaze slides over me - it's not that they're ignoring me - it's that they don't even recognize that I exist.

I tried on a dress for this aforementioned wedding a week ago - a purple, chiffony, deep V neck that swished and was lovely.  I asked David's opinion about the dress and he was underwhelmed.  "Oh, that's nice."  He didn't look like he wanted to lick his way from my collar bone to my navel.  He blandly smiled and part of me died inside.

As we were driving home from the mall he knew that something was up.  I was quiet, desperately rationalizing my crushing sadness.  We got home and I went upstairs and laid upon the bed, taking calming breaths.

"He just didn't like the dress.  It's not you.  The dress wasn't the best colour..."

And these are basically all the same things that he told me when he followed me upstairs and sat on the bed beside me.

"I know," I said.  "I know that.  You don't have to like everything that I put on.  I don't want you to lie and say something to appease my vanity.  It's just that there are these times that you look at me and I feel like I'm the most beautiful woman on the planet and this was NOT one of those times.  Seeing myself reflected in your eyes can make me feel desirable and... sexy and... POWERFUL and you didn't look at me that way this time.  And right now it's killing me, but I'll get over it."

The look on his face when I shared that shit?  Deflated.  I made him deflate.

"I'm not saying it to guilt you.  I'm being honest. And in a few minutes I will be able to move on, but right now my coping skills are at a minimum and I need to reboot."

My regularly programmed personality has been usurped by this short-tempered, weepy, bitch - whose behaviour is psychotic attention-seeking at its finest.  I am not this person.  This is NOT me.  I want me back.  I used to be the gal with a quick off-colour joke and burlesque posturing. My 'shoulders back, tits out' coping strategy got me through the day.  Bravado was my secret weapon.

Somewhere around Victoria Day I started having night sweats.  Two months folks.  That's all it takes.  Two months of disrupted sleep patterns and I have morphed into the stereo-typically irrational and moody menopausal woman who believes she had super sexy powers in her hair length.   This is why middle-aged women seem dissatisfied and bitchy all the time.  They're not crazy - they're fucking sleep-deprived.  Night sweats create an atmosphere very similar to early parenting exhaustion, except that in your late 40s you don't have the energy stores to power through the exhaustion, and when someone touches your naked body you want to strangle them.

Tonight I'm taking a sleeping pill.  It's time to reboot.

The horizontal bitch

"Is everything okay?" asks David, picking up on my funk.

"Yep.  All good." I give him a big thumbs up with a side of overly-enthusiastic smile.

He gives me a pointed look. I ignore him and lift my chin.

Rissa says "Mama do you need a hug?"

Yes, I do.  I do need a hug.  But I'm pretty sure that if I have physical contact I'm going to lose it. 

Rissa doesn't give me a choice and pulls me in.  I quickly morph into Shirley Maclaine a la Terms of Endearment, unwilling to let my daughter go.  I then burst into hiccuping sobs.

It has taken me three weeks to go from positive to psychotic.  Three weeks of sleeplessness and I'm no longer in control.  Fucking peri-menopause.

David calls me at work the next day.  "Hey love... just wanted to check to see how you're doing..."

"I'm fine," I say determinedly. I don't want to be that person.  I don't want to be that whiny, complaining, malcontent who can't keep her shit together.  He already heard my diatribe against feminine middle-age maladies over the long weekend - I'm not going to give it to him again - the comedy would be stale. "I'm working my head around it - it'll all be good.  I'll see you at home."

I might have spent WAY too much time designing her in www.heromachine.com

Waking once a night is normal.  Twice I can cope with... but six??  Six times in a night has taken me right back to early parenthood.  16 years on, I no longer have the stamina to withstand it.  Sweating vertically I can handle, it really only becomes unbearable when I'm horizontal. 

Hot - then quickly-cold, sweating, nauseated, heart racing - basically it's all the symptoms leading up to a bout of violent diarrhea.  And even though I know that I'm not technically ill, my body has been conditioned to recognize the feeling of cold sweats as something very, very bad.

I have to wear pajamas now.  I HATE wearing pajamas.  I commiserate with my mother over it...  Over the fact that my father didn't understand her just like David doesn't understand me.  "Why are you wearing more clothes to bed if you're having night sweats?"  Any woman suffering from these fuckers knows that you wear those pajamas so that when you throw the blankets off in the middle of the night you don't wind up shivering from the inevitable hypothermia when that slick of sweat cools your body.

"It's bedtime," says David.

"I don't think I can," I say - my bottom lip trembles pathetically.  "I'm afraid to go to bed now.  I hate failing at things. And now I suck at sleeping - something even babies can do!  I'm not drinking alcohol.  I'm not ingesting caffeine.  I've cut down on salt and sugar... I'm terrified of doing HRT on account of the does it or doesn't it cause CANCER with long-term use debate.  My Mom still gets hot flashes - and she's 71 - her Mom had them until she was 77.  I'm 47 - I'd have to be on HRT for 30 years!!" 

"Come on, we've got this," he says.  He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs.  "You are taking a sleeping pill tonight..."

"But I can't take sleeping pills every..." I begin.

"Just tonight before you brush your teeth - tomorrow we'll head to the health food store and stock up on every hot flash and night sweat remedy known to the world.  But tonight, tonight you're taking a sleeping pill and you're gonna put on your pj's and lie down and get thumped with the massager.  And then maybe you'll even enjoy a little "extra" massaging, for added relaxation."  He smiles and waggles his eyebrows.  "I'm turning the fan on to blow directly on your side of the bed, and if all that fails, we'll stand a couch on its side in here, I'll strap you in and you can sleep standing up, you know, like a vampire in a coffin.  We've got this."

Feline induced funk

"We need to kill all the cats."

"Huh?"

I am lying on my side in bed, eyebrows so low that I can feel them on my upper lip.

"WE. NEED. TO. KILL. ALL. THE. CATS."

"You don't mean that.  You love the cats."

"4:45!"

"Hmmm?"

"4 FUCKING 45 this morning Minuit with her fishy kibble cat breath and her petulant 'MEH' was in my face.  And then when I tried to ignore her she copped a feel and nipped at my nose."

"I'm sorry love."

"Why?  It's not your fault...  ...   ...  Wait, it IS your fault.  You closed the bedroom door last night and she was trapped inside with us which means that at 4 FUCKING 45 a.m. (because she is terrified of you) I was the only person she could wake up to let her out."  I open one glaring eye at David.  "And then... and THEN... fucking Lola comes in at 6:45 and breathes on me and fucking chirps at me."

"So this would have nothing to do with the fact that you didn't sleep well all weekend because you drank too much wine and it gave you hot flashes, and this just happened to be night three of poor sleep?"

"And what the fuck is THAT about?  All I want is to enjoy a good bottle of wine and by bottle, I don't even mean bottle, I mean two glasses.  Why am I being punished?"  I roll onto my stomach softly sobbing.  "I hate peri-menopause.  I hate cats."

"No, you don't.  You cross traffic to pet them."

"I hate cats this morning," I huff.   I think about what I've actually verbalized and reconsider my stance on cat euthanasia.    "We don't have to kill them all.  Minuit and Lola will be sent to Kitty Boarding School.  Steve can stay.  STEVE!  YOU CAN STAY, but your sisters are being shipped off to learn the error of their ways."

Touchpad Rage

WARNING: THERE IS BAD LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

"Shit-Piss-Fuck-Mother-FUCKER!!"

"What?  What is it?" David asks, his interest now piqued.

"This fucking touchpad!"

"Okay, steady on there, my love."

"You fucking steady on - JUST LET ME FUCKING HIGHLIGHT THE FUCKING SENTENCE!!!"

"O...KAY... It's time to take your hand off the touchpad."

"I HATE IT.  I DESPISE IT."

"That's just because..."

"Don't you tell me that it's because I don't use one enough."

He pauses... opens his mouth and then closes it.

"I hate the double finger tip thingie..."

He quirks an eyebrow at me.

"Shut up."

"I didn't..."

"I hate that the default with everything I want to do with a fucking touchpad is opposite to what I would normally do.  I want to go DOWN the fucking page.  I shouldn't have to move my mother fucking fingers up!"

"Where's your wireless mouse?"

"It's broken.  It tried to commit suicide."  I spy a traditional mouse on the loveseat where all our audio visual equipment has been lying since we updated our TV and media player.  "That mouse.  Right there, with the long tail..."

"Cord?"

"Shut up."

"Can I have it?"

"Love, I'd be willing to supply you with 50 mouses if your true personality would come back."

"You just don't get it.  I don't like having to use my thumb..."

He raises his other eyebrow.

"Not cute."

He shrugs.

"To CLICK.  TO MOTHER-FUCKING CLICK!!!!"

"Ahhhhhh... that makes more sense.  I mean having the opposable thumb is a perk to being...  I'll shut up now."

The laser beams from my eyes  have silenced him.  That and my hefting the laptop in preparation for beating him to death.

Willpower Reboot (or hide all the sugar in the universe)

Every January it's the same.  After a holiday season filled with my mother's impossible-to-resist butter tarts, whipped shortbread and banana-cherry slice;  after the boxes of Turtles, bars of Toblerone and Chicago Mix popcorn - I'm basically fucked. How is it that I make it through the first part of December relatively unscathed, only to then lose my mind in the safe-haven of my parents' home between December 24th and December 27th?

It just doesn't make sense.  I love being at my parents' house.  I don't have deep-seated anxiety when I visit.  Visiting my parents is something I actually choose to do.  So why, why, why, WHY for the love of stable blood sugar, am I unable to control myself when I'm home?  Why do I emotionally eat the moment the door opens?  It's not like I was raised on a diet of sugar and white flour - we weren't a dessert every night kind of family.

And now it's the New Year.  Now January is 3/4 over and I am still jonesing for sugar.  And I'm unable to stop myself if there is a box of chocolates just lying around.  I'm pretty much wired to eat like I might never eat again.  And I'm doing my best, I really am.  I'm doing my best to eat healthfully.  I have salads for lunch EVERY SINGLE FUCKING day at work.  I drink lots of water.  I'm hydrated, I take vitamins. 

I thought I'd had a breakthrough this week.  We'd had to drop off coffee and Timbits to a work crew.  A box full of Timbits, all coated in Liquid Heaven, just begging me to shove six to ten of them in my mouth all at once and then sink to the floor in a white flour and sugar coma.  I didn't do it.  Instead, all surreptitious-like, I leaned over the box and breathed in their deliciously demonic scent, because I knew... I knew that if I had just one of those Timbits, I'd be at the point of no return.  I'D HAD A GOOD DAY!!!  And then the other night, I blew that progress all to hell while at an after-rehearsal gathering.

How do I get back to eating only when I'm hungry?  I'm not talking about crash dieting, or starving myself, but shutting out that inner voice that tells me...

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON'T GRAB ALL THE FUCKING CHOCOLATE BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DOES!!!

How do I shut out that binge-eating, verging-on-the-schizophrenic voice?  How do I shut out the 2:12 p.m. voice that tells me that I'm insane to think that a decaf Earl Grey tea with stevia is going to satisfy the sugar slut in my gullet?  I feel like shit when I give in.  I want to crawl into a Slanket and give up on the world as I weep pitifully and wait for my blood sugar to calm down.  I'm nothing.  I'm no one.  I have no willpower.  Except... I do have willpower.  I only smelled that box of Timbits on Tuesday.  I'm not 'nothing.'  I'm someone for fuckssake!

All right then.  Cold fucking turkey it is.  I will breathe.  I will square my shoulders and do my best to ignore Sugar Nips' sultry voice.  And if I fuck up, I fuck up.  I can start over.  I'll just start over.  I can do this.

Middle Aged Spread...

I fucked it all up last January.   That was when I had a sore throat that turned into the flu, that turned into bronchitis which knocked me on my ass for about two months and instead of pushing through as I usually would, I actually rested.  Mostly on account of the fact that after walking from the bedroom to the bathroom, I needed to lie down.  I rested so much in the winter that my body said "Hey, I LOVE this resting thing, let's do more of that." I rested so much that my body forgot that it craved exercise.

I compensated for this lack of movement by eating salads every day at lunch.  My body rediscovered vegetables.  "Green things.  I like these green things.  And the red things and yellow things.  They are so... crisp... so... tasty..."

And then in the spring, I got to feeling better so hopped back on the ol' treadmill.  By summer, I was going for lots and lots and lots of walks in the actual outdoors, forcing the spouse with me so that the pair of us could mock those poor non-exercising schmos from our moral high ground.  Rissa and I started exercising in the evening - doing strength training.  And you know something?  Doing 60 squats a night?  After two months?  It actually makes one's ass look spectacular.  My ass looked fucking spectacular.   I used one of those exercise band thingies to strengthen my arms, I had defined triceps again.  I was feeling good, I was feeling strong, I was feeling fit...

And then?  Then I stood in a group of "20-something" girls in NY.  NEVER do that.  Stand next to one maybe, but not FIVE of them.  Don't surround your middle-aged body with women who are 25 years younger than you.  Their tiny bodies with their tiny waists, tiny asses and tiny thighs make you look like God-freaking-zilla amidst a terrified population. Next to these girls I looked like the big-boned middle-aged Aunt visiting from Europe with a uni-boob in a dress that, until placed next to these girls, I'd thought was flattering.

I persevered though.  I continued to be mindful of my eating, my exercise.  I kept doing those squats and lifting those legs.  Then I went to see my endocrinologist...  who put me on the scale and informed me that I'd gained 6 pounds in the last year. 

"I'm sorry... I did WHAT NOW?!?  But I've been exercising and eating salads!!  I know that it's not about the number on the scale, but what do I have to DO here?  Do I have to actually CUT OFF a limb to get to within 15 lbs of my ideal body weight??"

I'm not saying that I want to be 135 lbs which, according to most statistics, is what I should weigh.  I would look like a fucking corpse if I weighed that amount.  I'd be ecstatic arriving at the 150 lbs mark - which still means I'd have to lose TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS!!  I'd have to lose the equivalent of two, 3-month-old babies from my body.  Oh fuck - that's disgusting.  I have THAT much extra weight on me??  Jesus.  No wonder the vintage dress that I've been holding onto since I was 24 no longer fits me!  There's no extra room for my body and two hip babies!!

I blame peri-menopause (which has so many adorable symptoms, but the one I'm focused on right now is the seemingly inevitable weight gain), hypothyroidism (again crazy-amounts of symptoms - but ... weight gain), and...night caps.  That Rusty Nail that I have every now and again or mug of mulled wine while I'm cozying up with a book or binge-watching Netflix, that contributes, I'm sure, to the issue.  So I ask you this: How much more exercise would I have to do, how little food would I have to ingest to still be able to enjoy those night caps.  'Cause when the depression hits about not fitting into a dress from 2 decades ago, jogging 5 times around my small town isn't my go-to.

Blackmailed into Good Health

WARNING: I USE BAD WORDS IN THIS POST

Fuck peri-menopause. FUCK IT!!!  I do my best, I really do, I try to find the silver fucking lining to pretty much everything, but COME ON!!!

I am sitting here drenched as I type.  Because why?  Because I had fucking Chinese food!  Apparently MSG can trigger hot flashes.  The same way that too much salt can trigger hot flashes. The same way that caffeine can trigger hot flashes.  The same way that alcohol can trigger hot flashes.

I have become a tea-fucking-totaler, a crunchy granola enthusiast, a purveyor of vegetables, not out of choice, not because it's the healthful thing to do, but rather because if I don't - IF I DON'T - I will spontaneously combust... sometimes several times in a night.  I feel like Fawkes, the fucking Phoenix!

"Just kill me," I beg Rissa and David

"Oh love, are you hot?" asks David.

"Am I hot?  AM I HOT?!?  Feel beneath my breasts!"  I lift up my tank top, exposing my unencumbered tatas.   "You could deep fry tempura under here!!!"

Rissa averts her gaze.  "Whoa!!  Boobs!!  Maternal boobs!!"

I do my best not to burst into tears.  I would punch at the air, but the ineffectual movement would just make me hotter.

"Would you like a cool drink?"

"I would love an ice-cold chocolate fucking martini, but I can't have one because if I do, my insides will turn molten and I will DIE!!!"

"How about an ice pack?" David suggests helpfully.

An ice pack!!!  Oh sweet Jesus, we have ice packs!!!  I stagger down the stairs to the deep freeze, David's voice calls out behind me "I would have gotten them for you love..."

An angels' chorus greets me as I open the deep freeze - I weep at the beauty I find therein.

I come back upstairs looking like the beginnings of a bad BDSM scene.  I have small packs around my ankles and wrists with a larger one strapped around my neck.  I place myself in front of the oscillating fan to dry off my hot flash sweat.

"Better?" asks David.

"I don't have adequate words.  I want to start a charity that will give these to my sisters throughout the world.  SISTERS!!! SISTERS I WILL HELP YOU ALL!!!"

David and Rissa exchange a look.  "It's possible she might be hallucinating right now."

The Ballad of Menstrual Woman...

"I'm going to have a quick shower!" I say, heading up the stairs.

"O....kay..." This from David in the kitchen, his tone oddly sarcastic.

"Pardon?" I say - ducking down to catch his eye.

"Nothing," he shrugs before smiling falsely.

The temperature in the room has dropped about 15 degrees.

"Is something going on?" I ask.

"No, no, not at all..." He stands there belligerently.

I take a step further up the stairs, but then step back down.  "Are you sure nothing's going on?"

He heaves a deep, frustrated sigh.  "It's just that you don't really have quick showers," he says aggressively. "And we have to eat in 15 minutes."

My spirit crushed, I sit down on the stairs.  "Pardon?  I can have a quick shower..."

With a slightly patronizing eye-roll  he says,  "Yes, sure... yeah you can."

"I CAN have a quick shower!!"

"Uh-huh."  He's standing there, chest puffed out - looking ready to do a Krump battle.

"I CAN.  I'm going upstairs right now and you'll just see how quick!"

"O...kay..." His hands up now in a Whoa... Whoa... who's the crazy lady? gesture.

"Guys," says Rissa.  "This is not important."

"It IS!" I say stomping up the stairs.

I shoulder my way into the bathroom - my clothes off in mili-seconds.  The water is thrown on, I don't even adjust the temperature.  "See if I can't have a quick shower..."  I rinse my scalp and then slather on the conditioner, grabbing the back scrubber and smearing it with Grapefruit body wash.  Scrub... scrub... scrub... arms done!  Armpits done!  Legs done!  Hoo-ha (gently) done!  Feet done!  Hair, rinsed.  Water off.  Out.  Towel on.  Moisturizer on.  Towel off. Leave-in conditioner in.  Drag my fingers through my hair.  Grab the mousse and apply palmfuls of product to my curls.  Scrunch.  Scrunch again.  I speed-walk to the bedroom.  I grab my bathrobe, tying it as I come downstairs.

David and Rissa are still making Kraft dinner.  I sit triumphantly on the sofa.  I muffle my "HAH!" as best I can.  I glance pointedly at David.  Showed him.  Now would be the time to sit in regal silence.

"TOLD YOU!"

"Yes you did.  I am sorry for doubting you."

He has apologized.  I should accept it gracefully.  "If you want to talk time wasted in the bathroom, how about the 45 minutes that you can spend?  Just  sitting, over top of your own pooh!"

At this moment, with the word "pooh' ringing through my ears, I realize that I might not be as rational as I'd felt just 6.5 minutes before. 

"It is possible," I say (quietly).  "That I am a titch hormonal.  I thought I was done being hormonal for the week, but I was incorrect.  The floodgates have opened once more and I am now attributing paranoid judgmental adjectives to everyone's speech patterns."  I do an internal check - my rage has dissipated.  "I think I'm safe again."

Good thing I don't work at NASA...

"Would you mind grabbing my phone from the Jeep?" asks my friend Meaghan, as she's filling out some paperwork at the permits desk.

"Sure, no problem," I say.  I head out to the parking lot towards her white Jeep SUV.  Try the doors.  Locked.  Run back inside.

"Keys.  I'll need the keys," I say.

"Oh, I thought I'd left it open...  Here you go..." She hands me the keys.

"Back in a sec," I say, running outside again. I click the unlock button.  Nothing.  The locks don't budge.  The lights don't flash, although there is a very muted beep-beep sound.  I click it again.  Zip. Nada. Nothing.  The passenger door doesn't even have a key entry on its side. I walk around to the driver's side.  The key doesn't fit.  What the?  I click the unlock button once more - again a muted beep-beep - but no lock movement.  Maybe the batteries are low?  I shake the key fob and re-click.  Nothing.   I try the door lock again.   She must have given me the wrong keys.  This has to be the the key for her other car...

As I start back into the office, I take another glance down at the key.  No, this IS the Jeep key.  It actually has the word JEEP on it.  Weird.  I look back over my shoulder.  That's when I notice the other Jeep.  Or rather I notice THE Jeep.  The vehicle that I've been trying to break into is in fact a Chrysler Aspen - a Chrysler Aspen that is almost twice the size of Meaghan's white Jeep and is light cream in colour, not white.    Even better?  I now have to walk past the two car drivers waiting in their vehicles, parked in between the monster Chrysler and Meaghan's actual Jeep.  I nonchalantly walk towards the Jeep and click the key fob - strangely enough,  the correct vehicle brightly flashes its lights wildly in welcome and loudly beep-beeps at me.  "WELL, HELLO STRANGER - FINALLY COMING MY WAY?"

I'm snorting with laughter as I go back inside.

"What?" asks Meaghan.

"Okay, so you know how I came back in for the keys?"

"Yeah...?

"Well, in my defense - the other SUV wasn't there when we parked."

She looks out the door.  "Are you kidding me?  That car is twice the size of mine, way more luxurious and not even white!"

"I think I might have temporary size, quality and colour blindness."

The countertop is my nemesis...

Rage, all-encompassing RAGE.  Because why?  Because David left the peanut butter and honey out on the countertop.

All-encompassing rage with a side of dockworker swearing.  Because why?  Because there are crumbs on the countertop.

All-encompassing rage and swearing with a side of growling and hiccuping sobs. Because why?  Because there are not one, not two, but three broken bread tags on the countertop.

Common denominator?  The countertop.  When pristine, its 4" x 4" tiled surface is charming, and cottage-y.  Problem is, it's never pristine.  When we bought the house the grout was already stained.  The kind of stained that make you think that you might develop dysentery by wiping it. 

We don't have the budget to replace it.  And because I seem to be the only person in the house to actually wipe it - the countertop has become my nemesis.

Quick!  TO GOOGLE!!  "Stained grout."  Huzzah!!  There is grout paint!  The local hardware store carries it!!  I buy it.  I paint the grout.  TA-DAH!!!  New countertop!!

Until I try to wipe the grout the first time.  Until I need to scrub the grout to get all the bits of things that wind up in the grout, NOT on the tile.  EVERYTHING winds up in the grout.  David spilled our tin of dill weed.  I anticipate cleaning up dill for the next 4 years.  I need a special grout vacuum.  I need one of those wee little sucking vacuums that you can use for the crumbs in your keyboard.

I try to remain calm when it's time to wipe down the counters every night.  I approach it with quietly, cloth down by my side so that I don't startle it.  I hum gently to myself.

Wipe.  SIGH.
Wipe.   For the love of...
Wipe.  You YELLOW RAT BASTARD OF A COUNTERTOP!!!!

My parents just replaced their laminate countertops with a Corian solid surface countertop.  It was like seeing Shangri-La for the first time. 

I laid my head on the counter.  "It's so smooth!!!!"  I crawled up on the counter and lay there, my cheek against its cool surface, my hands caressing its non-grouted top.  "Soooooo smooooooth...." I might have wept a little.  Right there I then I decided to put money aside every month to able to afford a countertop such as theirs.  It might take years, but it will happen.

Next stop, the SEX OLYMPICS!!!

I always had a sneaking suspicion that I'd go crazy - I just didn't know that it would hit me quite this young.  I am 46 years old and my mind has already begun the descent into madness.  Not only that -  I'm watching it board the CRAZY TRAIN, don Groucho Marx glasses (with nose) and wave at me mockingly from the window.

It's because of sex.  I'm thinking about sex almost all the time.  Because why?  Because Rissa has had a boyfriend for almost three years, who now lives in the same town and walks her home everyday after school. We love him, he's a great boy, and he obviously adores her (hence the walking her home everyday), but he's still a boy who wants to touch my daughter's boobs.  This notion of someone wanting to grope my daughter, has made me fucking mental. 

Rissa and I were doing bedtime, chatting and laughing, with the added delight of a small tickle fight, and I accidentally copped a feel.

"Sorry!  Sorry!  Not cool for your Mom to cop a feel."

"It's okay Mummy.  It's not like you were squeezing them."

And then the thought hit me.  "Has...the boyfriend done any...?"

And then... she shrugged.  That's all it took.  A shrug.  Letting me know that the boyfriend had already copped a feel.

"Oh God!  OH GOD!  Above the waist!!  He can touch you anywhere ABOVE THE WAIST!!  PLEASE, KEEP IT ALL ABOVE THE WAIST!!!"

This is when David yelled from downstairs "Everything okay up there?"

"Mummy's gone crazy."

You know how Inception is all about creating an idea in someone else's mind?  That planted idea takes hold so strongly that it cannot be unrooted.  The idea of the boyfriend having sex with my daughter has undone me.  No longer am I the cool, collected, unflappable, unembarrassable mother.  Now conversations with her about sex have me imagining the boyfriend having sex with her - ALL THE TIME.

David's attempt at pragmatism: "Well there are worse things than having her first time be with someone who so obviously adores her."

"SHE IS FOURTEEN!!!!"

When they study after school, I see his hand on her knee and in my twisted mind, it's one short step from that relatively innocent affection to her entering the Sex Olympics.  (face palm) And when your daughter's made it to the Olympics you want to be all supportive and thrilled with her performance,

"Great job honey!!  Great job!!  That double-twisting somersault mount was AMAZING!!"

but it's THE SEX OLYMPICS!!!! (head banging on table) 

I have layered scarring on my tongue from biting it so hard.  She knows.  I know she knows.  She's not dumb.  But I also remember what it's like to get caught up in a moment and get all tingly and squishy inside.  And the next thing you know - BAM! - hymen-less.

So here's what I've come up with:  I try not to harrangue her every single minute of the day, and she has a prescription for the pill.  I have told her that this prescription is not tacit permission.  I have told her that I still believe she should wait until she's older - much, MUCH, older... but I'm not an idiot - she's in a long-standing relationship with a boy and I remember what I was doing at her age with boys who weren't my long-standing boyfriend. I frequently share the fact that, at 16, I was not emotionally ready for sex.  I share the fact that I had a terrifying almost pregnancy at 16, and did not practice safe sex when I was young.  I tell her it was by the grace of divine intervention that I didn't end up pregnant, with and STD and HIV.  During my Tourette's moments I might yell out the words VAGINAL WARTS now and again.

I didn't think this would be me.  I thought I'd be even-tempered and intellectual about it all.  I thought my usually brash nature would take over and allow me a measure of laid-backness to my daughter's maturity.

"I'll take Illogical Suppositions for $1000 Alex..."

I didn't account for the Mom Factor.  The very thought of my baby having sex makes me hyperventillate.  My massage therapist came up with a great idea.  We start a parents' group.  It would be a rotation system - we would all talk to other people's teenagers about sex.  Teenagers, with whom we don't share DNA.  Teenagers with whom we don't have a huge emotional connection.  Without the Wonder Years' esque remembrances of the day they were born,  how their teddy bear got its name, or their first day of school, it will be so much easier to talk freely about chlamydia and the fact that oral sex should be an equal opportunity sexual act.

I'm starting a sign up sheet for NOT YOUR MOM'S SEX TALK - who's in?  Until we really get going, I'm handing out these pins.