Today's post sponsored by the letter P

As in perimenopause. The totally unwelcome and inevitable change overtaking so many of us. The condition that has made my last week a trip through hell. I do my best to ignore the symptoms most of the time; there's no sense concentrating on what you can't change, right? But this week has been a real bitch. With a capital B. So I figured I take a fresh look at the symptoms and see how I'm doing.

First, I needed a symptom list. I found a good one at this site. Just a quick top 10 type thing.

Let's see how I compare, and to be fair, this will be FULL of TMI:

10. Irregular periods. This is totally what touched all this off today. After rising entirely too early for a Sunday morning, I felt that all too familiar "gush". You ladies know exactly what I'm talking about. After a quick check of my period tracker, I was not surprised to see I'm a full week early. Looking back through my history, my cycle has gone anywhere from 23 days to 65 days.  At one point, I skipped a month entirely (hence the 65 days), sending me off to the store in a panic for a pregnancy test. Not a comforting thought when you're approaching your mid-40's.

9.  Problems sleeping. Did I mention I was awake early this morning? I can't fall asleep at night. I wake up on average of 598 times during the night. I'm either awake before the birds, or sleep through my alarm for 45 minutes. I nod off at my desk at work. I operate best on a full eight hours of quality sleep a night. Something that hasn't happened in approximately 1,825 nights. I'm not joking.

8.  Hot flashes. Sweet Jesus, what happened to my internal thermometer?? I'm just thankful they are usually at night. Needless to say, I no longer have to question if it's time to wash the bedding.

7.  Mood changes. Let me just say, The Enterprise entering Warp Speed has nothing on me. Olympic-class sprinters take lessons from my family.

6.  Low libido. Sex? Fuggetaboutit. More often than not,  my husband has a better chance of winning the lotto or being struck by lightning than enjoying the pleasures of my company.

5.  Vaginal dryness. I suppose it would be easier to verify this if I were actually having sex regularly. I'll have to get back to you on this one. Or maybe you'd rather I didn't.

4.  Weight gain. Particularly in the tummy area. I haven't had a pooch like this since immediately post-birth nearly 17 years ago. Thank the stars for spandex. Even last year, when I had my first - and hopefully last -  painful bout with diverticulitis and lost 10 pounds in nine days, I didn't lose the balloon on my tummy. And, sadly, the 10 pounds has found its way back home.

3.  Tender breasts. I'm convinced that somewhere in the chain of hormonal monsters, there is an ethereal being that holds a voodoo doll representing my boobs. Every.Damn.Thing.Makes.My.Boobs.Hurt. I finally got smart enough to decrease my caffeine intake, which did help. But they routinely remind me they are there and not at all happy to be in a bra/out of a bra/exposed to wind/exposed to the shower/within arms reach of my husband/or hanging out above the hot stove. Nothing makes them happy. Nothing.

2.  Urinary incontinence. This one just pisses me off. All of the symptoms do, but this one in particular. I don't dare sneeze, cough, or even blink my eyes most days. I know where every bathroom within a 100-mile radius is, because if my bladder isn't dripping like a broken faucet it is screaming at me that it has to pee, RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

1.  Migraines. In the last week, I've been under the influence of a headache for five days. Several of those days, I've been riding the very thin line between a ridiculously bad headache and a migraine. I've given serious thought to trying out the ancient procedure of tripanning. For those unfamiliar, here is a reference. Honestly, it sounds a lot more pleasant than the constant pain of a headache.

In closing, I'd like to address my ovaries directly, since they are charge of this delightful death march.

Fuck you, and the Fallopian tubes you rode in on.

Today, I ponder...

I found myself stumbling down the steps this morning at the ungodly hour of 3:52 am. This I'm not pondering. It was at the request of my bladder, who has taken on it's own existence without me. It calls, I answer.

Anyway, as I hit the bottom of the steps and turn, I realize the porch light is on. It's a motion light and shouldn't be on. Unless there's a cat waiting patiently to come in. I looked out, expecting to see Smalls or Kaos tapping a paw, waiting for someone to let their kingliness in. Instead, I was met with the sloppy sideways grin of Taz. And I pondered why in the world my dog was outside at 3:52 am. Unattended. He did not have an answer for me, despite being asked three time on his way to his room. I was too tired to ask again, and went back to bed.

Fast-forward to roughly 5:45 am, and hubby's alarm going off. My first lucid though was, "Why in the hell is it so damn cold in here?" I had curled as tightly as possible into the available blankets. Then I realized I was breathing cat hair. At some point, I had even pulled their blanket over myself. Yuck. Now I realize the window is open. Why is the window opened. Clearly, I didn't open it. Nor did I notice at 3:52 am that it was open. Had I had a hot flash that didn't wake me up? I guess it could happen. Had I turned the bedroom into an inferno that woke hubby up? Very well possible, according to him. At any rate, I was shivering cold. And when I get cold, I have to pee. So much for sleeping.

Then, while standing on the porch waiting for the dog to pee, I was gazing out over the gardens. And the weeds. And mentally giving myself a tongue-lashing for not having them all clean and pretty yet. Then I noticed it. Catnip. Every damn where. WHY did I think it would be a good idea to plant that crap. Yes, the cats enjoy it immensely. But it's a friggin weed. And by the looks of it, it has choked out one of red hot poker plants. That shit has got to go.

But I also noticed something good when I was outside. My bugleweed is looking wonderful, and is spreading nicely. It even has some early blooms on it. Ahhh, lovely enough to forget about the catnip. For now.

Of Biceps and Bleach: My Awful Bathroom

I may have mentioned in the past that I hate my bathroom. If not, let me just say, I hate my bathroom. For those in need of clarification, I. HATE. MY. BATHROOM.

Yes, it's an old farm house, so bathrooms weren't architectural beauties back then. They merely had to be functional. So my bathroom is functional, and that's about it. Only it's not entirely functional. There is no exhaust fan. None. There is a window, but we'll get to that in a minute.

I'm totally in the minority in my house when it comes to showers. I'm the "get in, get it done, get out" type. Maybe once a month I will just stand in the hot water for a bit. Seriously. I get peeved if I have to stand in there long enough to shave my legs.

My guys, however, would stay in there all day of the hot water held out. Literally. I've gone in after one of their showers and walked into a man-made weather system, complete with precipitation. Water literally drips off the ceiling. Back to the window. Do you know what happens to wooden windows with that much humidity in the room? They swell. What happens when a window swells? That's right, they don't open. So the sage advice of opening a window when you don't have a fan doesn't work for me.

So little by little, drip by drip, cloud by cloud, my bathroom dies a slow and painful death. The stranglehold of mold and mildew begins.  Until I go in with bucket, scrubbies, bleach, and gloves and do battle. It's ugly work. It stinks. When I'm done, I'm usually hallucinating. All because I refuse to let my bathroom look like this.

In good news, a miracle happened and the window dried out enough to open. But I'm going to have to post an armed guard in there to prevent folks from closing it again. I'd like to keep it open until the snow flies next winter. 

And that's what my afternoon is going to be today. If you don't hear from me again, I'll be stretched out in the tub talking to unicorns and smoking a piece of carpet. Wait, I don't have any carpet...

The week in review.

This is the highlight of the week. Before you sits over $100 worth of meds. For the dogs. Or more precisely, two of the dogs. Somehow, in typical mysterious fashion for our house, there is sickness afoot. Without being exposed to any other dogs, much less sick dogs, we have kennel cough germs tucking into the lungs of all the beasts, one by one. 

The dosage instructions are involved enough, I need a chart to keep it straight and make sure we don't miss any doses. Each course is 10 days. If all of the dogs end up getting this, I will be passing out pills for at least a month. I better stock up on hot dogs and lunch meat. They are so talented, they can separate pills out of a wad of bread and spit them right back out on the floor. Appetizing, to say the least. 

I've decided this is no different that having a house full of young children who bring home every bug known to momkind. I'm just really glad it's not chickenpox, stomach flu, or explosive diarrhea. Those were NOT the days.

And as luck would have it, the oldest son dropped off his dog on Thursday in order for me to take him to the vet for his annual visit. For some reason, his 12-hour work days prohibit him from having the time to take care of it himself. And because of those 12-hour days, the dog is still here because he hasn't had time to come fetch him. I've tried to keep him separate from the other dogs, but you know how that goes. They looked at each other, so that's about all it's going to take. If Junior starts coughing, I'm pretty sure I'll have him for the full 10 days as the boy won't remember to divvy out meds twice a day. I'm not entirely convinced he remembers to do his laundry or buy groceries. Unless it's beer.  Being the mom never ends, even after they move out. 

And from behind closed doors comes the sound of more hacking and coughing. From dog #3. 

Fucking fantastic. The vet is now on speed dial. 

Preaching to myself

Fair warning: This post may find me using words not fit for polite company.

I truly believe that anger will get you nowhere. Anger closes the door to a happy life. Anger makes it difficult to get along with others. I remind myself constantly that getting angry at the behavior of others doesn't accomplish a damn thing. It just ruins my day. And life is too short for that.

BLAH. BLAH. FUCKING BLAH.

Well, today, I'm angry. I'm pissed. I'm full of vexation, animosity, indignation, fury, ire, rage, and resentment. I'm going to throw either a cat fit or a hissy fit. Thank you, thesaurus.

I got up today prepared for the normal course of cleaning. By normal, I mean the usual things one does to keep a neat and orderly home. Some laundry, dusting, sprucing of the bathroom and kitchen, sweep and mop the floors.

Instead, I've found myself (once again) cleaning up the messes left behind by others who live in this house. Messes that I shouldn't have to fucking deal with. Food messes. Drink messes. Dishes where they don't belong. Clothing everywhere. Garbage here, there, and everywhere. And why is it so flipping hard to refill the damn ice trays?

I haven't even started on what I wanted to accomplish today, except to start the laundry. And even to do that, I had to fold numerous loads left by someone else because they needed something washed, but can't possibly be troubled to fold a damn thing. No, instead they shovel it into baskets, stomp it down into a tightly woven mess of sweatshirt arms, blue jeans legs, and socks. Which is, of course, the perfect cat bed and now should really be rewashed because it's full of hair. Tough shit, y'all, you're getting hairy clothes in your piles.

I'm pissed so my stress is up, adrenalin is flooding my system. My normal case of the shakes has turned into my own awkward version of the Harlem Shake. Which I fail to see the humor in, but that's another post entirely.

You know the phrase seeing red? That's me right now. I can't even stand my own level of anger right now, that's how bad it is. I want to throw things, break things, throttle the people that do this. But that would just make MORE of a mess to clean up.

I'm going to go clean and continue preaching to myself. Maybe after a good long lecture, I'll calm down. I will say, it's a damn good thing that no one else is home. I'd either be headed to jail or the mental ward.

Just a little gripe...

I'm feeling a little bitchy. Probably because I seldom like being told what I can/can't do.

I put a post on my Facebook page yesterday. A simple post really. I'd heard there'd been an accident in town at one of our large employers, and Life Flight was called in. So that's all I put. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And I got my fingers smacked, although virtually. Nothing from that place is supposed to be put on Facebook, per the warning from the onsite big boss and higher-ups from the main office. This warning has been sent out several times...to employees. Employees...which I am not. I simply live in the same town and know people that work there. Everyone in town knows someone who does/has worked there.

So anyone in that area of town at the appointed time would have heard sirens, seen ambulances, maybe even saw Life Flight coming in. It's NOT a secret that something happened there yesterday. And as a non-employee, their social media rules do not apply to me. I divulged no confidential information. No names. No implication of liability. I simply stated there'd been an accident and I was praying for whomever was injured. Period.

So no, I'm not taking down my post. Period.