Thursday, June 30, 2011


Me: I'm feeling really tired. It must be because of my period.

Son: Maybe next time you should have an exclamation point.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Razors and Rage Don't Mix

I think Allegra works pretty well for my allergies, but it makes me cranky as fucking hell! I've been feeling rage and fury all day long. I tried to unload on my family this morning, but they just shrugged and went about their business. When the hell did everyone around here become immune to my rage and fury?

I waited all day to unload on my husband, but decided against it. He'd probably suggest medication or a cocktail, anyway. It's easier than dealing with the shit that pisses me off. (Seriously, I'm not usually such a pissed off person. It's the allergy meds, I'm tellin' ya!)

Instead of talking things out with my husband I decided to take a nice relaxing bath while taking care of a few personal hygiene issues. While I was shaving my legs, I noticed my razor was pretty dull. I figured I'd just deal with it and change the blade next time, but  then I gouged myself and started bleeding.

Still having several areas needing shaving, I decided to change the blade midstream. I hopped out of the tub, dripping water and blood and opened the cupboard to grab a new blade. Naturally, I couldn't find one, which infuriated me because I know I just bought some!

I did, however, find fifty sticks of used up deodorant. Why am I the only one, for fuck's sake, who can throw away an empty stick of deodorant, or change the toilet paper roll, or put a fresh garbage bag in the can? Why? And why am I the only one around here who can ever find anything, and yet I CAN'T find my fucking razor blades?

Determined to find them, I started pulling crap out of the cupboard, and while I was doing that I dropped my very expensive jar of moisturizer which cracked. Sweet. When I looked down at the cracked jar I noticed that quite an impressive puddle of blood and water had accumulated under my feet.

I decided relaxing tub time was over and went and rinsed off. I put on my bathrobe and came directly here so I could fume at the computer. Now my husband is calling me, and I think I have to go explain the puddle of blood in the bathroom that I failed to clean up. I'm pretty sure leaving it there was a subconscious cry for help. Next time I think I'll just unload on him when he gets home from work. It would have been less painful for both of us.  Also, I think a cocktail is in order.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Who Thinks This Shit Up?

What is the difference between these tampons "For Active Livestyles," and the tampons they make for women who sit on their ass all day? Seriously, what?

It must be these brilliant little inspirational sayings on the wrapper. 

What the hell would a lazy woman be able to do with wisdom like this:

"Go with your gut."

Is going without my gut an option, because I choose that!

"Keep a clear head."

Eh, no thanks.  I prefer my brain on tequila.

"Just go."

That one's a winner! I think I'll save those to hand out to the men who hit on me at the bar.

I do appreciate the fact that these babies have a "quiet" wrapper.  The last thing I want when I'm sitting on the pot in the little girls' room is to have the woman next to me know I'm unwrapping something.  I wouldn't want her to think I might be, shhhhh!  Menstruating.  Now, if they could only package Doritos with quiet bags.  I was mortified the last time I got caught eating those in the ladies' room.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Poker Face by Lady Gigi

I have a friend who is an alcoholic, and I'm afraid, no, I'm quite certain, I've been enabling her. Gigi and I meet in a bar almost every week, and I have lost count of the times I have given her a ride home, held her hair while she puked in the bathroom, and assured her the day after that I didn't hate her. One time I spent the night at her house watching over her because she fell in the parking lot and cut open her head. She refused to go to the hospital, and would have been livid had anyone called for medical assistance. I was afraid she had a concussion and would pass out and drown in her own vomit.

The very simple answer is stop meeting her in the bar for Christ's sake! And it may come to that, but I'll explain why I haven't made that decision yet.

For a few years I've been meeting the same group of friends at the same bar once a week to play poker. It's not about the game, it's about getting together. It's also my place to be a real person as opposed to a mom, but we have grown to love the game too, and our weekly meetings wouldn't be the same without it. Besides, new people come and go and we enjoy being regulars at this particular bar. We are practically royalty there, and that's kinda awesome.

An even smaller group of us, the circle,  meet a couple of hours before the game starts to have dinner and talk. It's our girl time, and it's become sacred. We have seen each other through divorces, new marriages, countless breakups and several sex scandals, as well as surgeries, cancer scares, and one very scary dental appointment. (I hate going to the dentist!)

Gigi hasn't always been a part of our group. She's single, practically an orphan, and literally has no one in her life that she can rely on, so I thought I was doing something good for her by drawing her into my close group of friends. I didn't realize she had a problem with alcohol at the time. I thought I was introducing her to wonderful people who could become a family to her, and they have.

In fact, just last night Gigi was thanking me, for the thousandth time, as she tends to do when she drinks too much, for bringing her into our circle. Then she put her head down on the table and went to sleep, as she sometimes does.

It was agreed by all, except Gigi, that I would take her home. It's always me. I'm the one who knew her first, so apparently that makes me responsible for her for life. No. Actually, the thing that makes me responsible is that I care, and I won't let her kill herself or someone else.

So, we woke her up, and helped her out to my car. She tried to talk me into letting her drive. I refused. When we were halfway to her house she was still begging me to turn around and return her to her vehicle. When I dropped her off she was pissed off at me and wouldn't even hug me goodbye. I hugged her anyway and waited until she got herself inside. It took her five minutes to find the key and open the door.

This morning she apologized profusely and thanked me for getting her home. She also vowed that she would never set foot in the bar again and told me she poured the box of wine in her fridge down the drain.

I know she'll be back at the bar, if not next week, the week after that. She'll do better for a few weeks and then she'll have another bad night.  Lather, rinse, repeat. 

So it seems I have two choices: either give up my cherished weekly poker game and girl time or continue to enable Gigi. Who knows? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she really will get her act together like she promised.

I know. Denial is part of the disease.

Awkward Vibrations

Someone has been messing with my vibrator!

I opened my happy drawer, to uh, just check on everything, yeah, to check, and when I tried to turn on my vibrator nothing happened. "Oh, holy hell! I muttered to myself, "I just changed the batteries two weeks ago." I ran down the hall, grabbed a couple of AA's and returned to my bedroom.

When I opened that bad boy up I noticed the batteries were in backwards.


So, I turn them around and the thing springs to life, except that I can't turn it off. The only way to make it stop vibrating is to take the batteries out, or, if I'm trying to be stealth about it I turn the suckers around. I put them in backwards. Just like some sneak has done.

Now the only question is, who?

I can't imagine any reason my husband would be touching my vibrator. I mean, maybe if I try I can imagine something, but I don't think that's it. That leaves only one other scenario. One of my teenage daughters has been in my happy drawer, and if that is the case, Oh. My. God.

It took me until I was in my forties to even admit I owned a vibrator, and now the only thing more mortifying to me than having my teenage daughters discover them (and "play" with them! Oh, and yes, I did say, "them.") is the time my husband came home early when I was using one. Yeah, that sucked!

He could have totally saved me if he had flown into the bedroom, ripped off his clothes, and jumped on top of me, but no. What he did was worse. He left the bedroom door shut and didn't say a word. Nothing. Not to this day. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. We just pretend it never happened. However, I have taken to telling him about some of my solo adventures since then, which is a BIG step for me.

But what to do about my daughters? I guess I won't say a word. That and get a padlock for my happy drawer!

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Holy Orgasms, Batman!

Can we talk about Orgasms? Specifically, MY orgasms? (Those are really the only orgasms of which I am qualified to speak, after all.)

For my whole sexual life I've been a one orgasm gal, except when I'm the one in the driver seat, if ya know what I mean. Anyway, I've been happy with that because that one orgasm has always been a reliable one, and it's always been very intense and satisfying. So, no complaints here!

Lately, though, I have become extremely orgasmic. I don't know if this is because of my age and hormones or if it's a delightful side effect of discontinuing the antidepressant medication I was on for a year that made me almost completely NON-orgasmic. In any case, what I am experiencing is very strange and wonderful.

When making love to my husband I now have several orgasms and he feels like a rock-star! He isn't doing anything differently, so really? I should be the one who gets the rock-star label, but we'll let him have it because we all know how fragile the male ego is. Shhh, it'll be our secret. wink wink.

But the multiple orgasms is not the really strange part. The strange and wonderful thing is I've been having them in my sleep! It's happened a few times now, enough for me to be sure it's not my imagination, because let's face it, women don't have the same evidence of nocturnal emissions as men/boys do, right?

Anyway, I typically have a sexy dream, usually in the morning, I dream the full meal deal, and I wake up breathing heavily, my heart pounding, and a general feeling of "Oh hell yeah!"

If this is a side effect of impending menopause, "impending," meaning "pretty soon" as in, you know, maybe ten years from now, sigh, I guess it's a pretty nice side effect, and one of those reasons I was looking for that would help me embrace the whole no periods thing. I'm just afraid it's temporary, but in the meantime, I'm not complaining!

To Bleed or not to Bleed, It's Not Like I have a Choice...

The other night while cuddling with my husband after making love, I mentioned something about expecting my period to start soon, and he said, "Pretty soon, no more periods."


"Pretty soon?" I said.

He, being not completely stupid, must have noticed the apprehension in my voice, and said, "Yeah, you know, like two years or maybe ten. Pretty soon. No more babies, right? That's a good thing."

"Um, I thought babies were off the table when you got your vasectomy several years ago," I said, my agitation growing.

"I meant no more babies for YOU."

"OH! Sweet, I can run around pulling off my panties indiscriminately and not have to worry about getting pregnant, is that what you mean?"

He laughed.

"You need to stop talking now because you're depressing me," I told him, and although I said it like I was joking I had to choke back a tear. He must have sensed that too because he shut up.

I can understand how, from his perspective, after listening to me complain about my periods for years, he would believe that not having them anymore would be a good thing. I hope someday I will also see that as a good thing, but right now, it seems like one milepost closer to the end of the line, and that doesn't sit well with me.

When I think of post menopausal women I think of old, dried up, cranky, saggy, and sexless women that smell bad. I know what a gross misconception this is. I have sexy, vibrant, friends who are on the other side of that bloody divide, and yet this perception I have persists.

I need to get me some Christiane Northrup. She has a way of making women's issues, no matter what the stage of life, seem like a gift and a wonder. I can remember listening to her years ago and almost looking forward to menopause. I think it's time to check her out again!

If nothing else, I can make plans to become a floozy. My husband practically endorsed the idea, right? For now, I'm still dealing with bloating and blood-stained panties, though, but pretty soon,...

Friday, June 24, 2011

Can't Keep My Mouth Shut

I've reached a point in my life where I can no longer bite my tongue and keep my mouth shut; not in the interest of preserving peace, not to make sure I am liked, not even to avoid hurting feelings.   After years of remaining silent in certain situations, I am literally about to explode! 

As a younger woman I was so afraid of making people angry with me.  I needed everyone to like and approve of me.  The desire to keep a firm grasp on every single connection in my life outweighed the need for me to speak my truth, so I contorted myself in order to be that easy-to-get-along with girl that always makes people comfortable.

Now? Not so much.  When something pisses me off, I verbalize it.  I can't seem to help myself.  I can no longer tolerate being treated badly or standing by and watching some shithead treat someone I love badly. I can't do it.

I sensed this change in myself, and it was confirmed a couple of weeks ago when I blew up the whole family by impulsively telling a relative something I have wanted to say a million times before over the last few years.  This person is a parasite, and she's been taking advantage of people I love, and although I know it is their (the people I love) job to decide whether or not they will allow themselves to be used in this way, I literally could not keep from voicing my anger and frustration.

I was respectful in the way I said what needed saying, but the truth was pretty harsh and hit the target like bullets.  The reward for my honesty?  I got called a "fat fucking cunt," and this relative is no longer in my life.  I don't give a shit.  It feels really good to have told the truth.  Contrary to what I had feared, telling the truth did not result in my dissolving and blowing away.  It didn't make me die on the spot.  However, one thing I feared most did, in fact, happen.  Someone stopped liking me.  But you know what?  That person doesn't deserve to be in my life, anyway, and it's taken a long time for me to respect myself enough to see that.

This new freedom feels good, and that's why I started this blog.  I've finally found myself, I love and respect myself, and I'm going to show myself truthfully to the world, both here in Cyberland and in the real world.  Love me or get the fuck outta my way!