…well she called again today and wants to go shopping.  Thursday was her requested day.  She’ll buy lunch (of course) and then she wants a red sweater or jacket and some plain white Keds.  Of course she has very specific requirements for these two items, and we will never be able to find them so we will be required to go back.  Probably next week.

It’s not that I mind so much.  Yes, she is hard to deal with.  She complains about everything.  Nothing ever fits.  Nothing is the right color, shape, or whatever it takes to make sure that she can hijack me for another day.  It’s not her fault, really.  Her own kids are disasters that only ask her for money or favors.  They never just show up to take her to lunch or dinner.  They call and promise things that never happen and use, use , use her.  She is lonely and needy and I seem to be the only one who cares.

Today, even my mother said she was afraid that my very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street means more to me than she does.  I am shocked.  She absolutely can’t see that there is no contest when it comes to whom I love more.  She pulls these little guilt trips on me all the time, but today I tried to make her understand that because I am a good person I simply cannot turn my back on her.  When my mother asked why, I told her that it was because I was a good person.  My mother’s response was that she was a good person too, but she could turn her back on her.

Life is often one of those damned if you do damned if you don’t.  Lately it seems like it’s almost damned before I do or don’t.  Everything in this stinking house is breaking down or messing up.  The hubby monitors every dime I spend.  When I do have to buy something he won’t tell me no.  He just has this really disappointed tone of voice that lets me know that he would have rather I hadn’t.   I keep waiting for something to change and the only changes I see are for the worse.

The Precious is good for a laugh.  Everything he does is precious beyond belief, but he has to go home sometimes (I mean he really has to go home).  I can’t seem to enjoy reading or cross stitch.  I try but doing anything that close up makes me sleepy.  Playing games on the computer has become mundane.  I can’t enjoy the pool like I should.  Our Polaris (that’s our automatic pool cleaner that we call Dave) is broken and is not going to be fixed any time soon.  It is a low priority need.  That means that I have to vacuum the pool by hand.  Dragging a ten foot pole through 8 feet of water (in the deep end) for a couple of hours does nothing to decrease the arthritis in my shoulders.  I have been making myself do it at least twice a week, but it hurts like hell and it takes me three days to get over it.  By then it’s time to vacuum again.  I keep the house picked up.  If you come over don’t look closely.  There hasn’t been enough good days to clean it like I should.

So what do you do when you are clinically depressed, emotionally stressed, and in a great deal of pain?  You blog.   I know that no one wants to read about the crap that goes on in my life, when everyone is dealing with their own crap.  I don’t know why I am writing this.  Maybe to vent in my own way.  If you are reading this I am yelling out loud right now, “I’m made as hell and I just can’t take it anymore.”  Unfortunately, it hasn’t done me any good.

Therefore when I am around my emotionally needy mother I must plaster a smile on my face and pretend that everything is peachy.  When my children call or come by with their problems, I lend a comforting shoulder and tell them it will all work out.  I wouldn’t burden them with the pain I feel.  I listen to them complain and nod and act like they are the only people who have ever had problems.  Meanwhile I am dealing with a crap load of problems all my own.

“No mother I don’t love any other old woman as much as I do you.  Everything is fine. I’m feeling better today.” Because if I don’t call every single day she assumes I am lying in bed.  If I don’t come over every couple of days I must be aching too much to come and see her.  If I do anything else and she learns of it she gets the same look on her face that the hubby does when he sees me coming in with a shopping bag.  It’s not happiness that I see there.  Forgive me if I sound bitter, but I kind of am right now.  As far as mother goes, my sister has it much worse than I do.  I know lots of people who deal with more than one needy old lady.  My pain is nothing compared to so many people who are coping much better than I.  I realize that we have it better than a lot of people out there.  The big difference is this is happening to me, and I have been patient, and considerate of others, and all the things they told me that is required of a good girl and now all I am is pissed.

So what am I going to do about it?  Absolutely nothing.  I will take my very dear, very Southern friend shopping and then go and see my mother because God forbid I shouldn’t.  I will be there for my family, regardless of the pain it causes me, and I will continue to blog mostly happy stories of my world and what happens in it.  However; occasionally I will vent.  I will vent loudly and without thoughts of how my words sound to others.  I can only do that here, and  I will apologize to those of you reading my frustration because that is what good girls do.

My very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street invited me to lunch yesterday.  We took my car so she paid for lunch.  You know sometimes I am pretty naive.  This was one of those times.  As soon as the waitress pulled our plates she asked if I would mind going to Dillard’s for just a second.  She needed a red purse.  Now that’s all she said “I need a red purse”.  I was soon to learn that needing a red purse meant it had to be of medium size, have at least one outside pockets, a middle zipper compartment, an inside pocket for her cell phone, and a structured bottom.  Oh, and it couldn’t be anything but one specific color of red.  That second turned into an hour of looking at every red purse Dillard’s had, and systematically dismissing them all.

When I gave up on red purses and started looking at the costume jewelry she joined me.  She decided she wanted a CZ wedding band and some earrings for her grand-daughter.  The earrings were easy.  That only took about half and hour.  The looking for a wedding band took a lot longer.  First, it needed to be a size 9.  Then, it needed to be yellow gold and not look cheap. I pulled every yellow gold non-cheap looking wedding band I could find.  Please remember that we are looking at costume jewelry.  So I reminded her that the yellow gold rings were probably just gold plated.  You can’t get a yellow gold CZ wedding band for $20.   I told her that when Boppy and I travel I always wear faux jewelry.  That way if we are ever held up the thieves wouldn’t be taking my good jewelry.  She had never heard of such a thing, so she starts polling the other customers.  More often than not they traveled with fakes.  One cute little blinged out elderly woman stated that she wore fakes unless she was going to Vegas.  My very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street, walked out with sterling silver studs in several sizes for her grand-daughter and a sterling silver and CZ wedding band for herself.  But that wasn’t as simple as it sounds.  Having given up on me, she started asking the other customers if the ring looked cheap.  She finally abducted one silver haired, bent over, older woman and she began helping us look for a wedding band.  After she held up an onyx ring and proudly declared it was an amethyst, I was pretty sure she was a less than perfect source.  We practically had to take the octogenarian with us as we turned (I thought) to leave.

No such luck.  With bags in hand I was heading for the door when she passed the perfume counter.  “I need some cheap perfume.  I used to always wear Chanel Allure, but I’m so broke now I need some cheap stuff”.  There is no “cheap” stuff at Dillard’s perfume counter.  There is less expensive.  She has always commented on how good I smell, whenever we are together.  So I took her to the Vera Wang section so she could smell the cologne I wear.  “No it’s way too sweet.”  We tried Elizabeth Arden’s Fifth Avenue…”Well hell, that smells like finger nail polish remover!” she proclaimed quite loudly.   I then took her to the Dior counter.  “Is that the best they could do? It smells like it came from Avon.”  As I decided we needed to leave the perfume counters, the employee that had been helping us patted my back and said “Good Luck!”  I murmured my thanks.  Again heading for the door I was stopped by a request to go upstairs and look at blouses for her to take on her trip to Scotland next month.  Now by this time my patience was stretched to the max.  I hadn’t slept well the night before and my pain level has been in the upper half of ten for about two weeks now, and I knew this was not going to be easy.  But off we went up the escalator to look at tops.  A novice no longer, I asked her to be specific about the type of shirt she wanted.  “Just something that is longer.  You know, it needs to hide my butt.”  Off we went in search of the elusive blouse that would cover her butt.  The first one I picked up had a neckline that was too low.  Now I’m not trying to tell you that there was cleavage.  The problem was “it’ll show my turkey waddle”.  “So what you want is a top that hangs below your butt, and hides your turkey waddle.” “Yeah.”  So off I went looking for a top that was a tunic, basically and had a high neckline.  I found a button up tunic that could hide as much or as little turkey waddle as she wanted.  “Oh that’s cute.  Does it come in any other colors?”  Of course it didn’t.  I said “what colors are you wanting?”  “Well, I’m taking black pants, blue pants, khaki pants, and blue jeans.”  “My God!  Anything will go with those colors.  What was really wrong with the last blouse?”  “It had some weird colors in it.”  “Like what?”  “Lavender.”  So now I am searching for a tunic with a turtleneck in a solid color.  I came back with a top that was basically a tunic t-shirt in solid white.  “I have t-shirts coming out the wazoo, and that one has short sleeves.”  “So you want long sleeves.”  “Hell no.  I want the sleeves to come to the end of my flags.”  For those of you who don’t know…that is arm flab.  Back I go with yet another “it has to have” added to my list.  I thought I had it this time.  I brought a nice red striped tunic with a boat neck and 3/4 length sleeves.  “I can’t wear horizontal stripes!  I’ll look like a giant peppermint stick.”  I finally gave up.  Go back in the dressing room and I will bring you more things you won’t like”.  She finally found a zip up hoodie in a blue horizontal stripe with red trim that fell below her butt for $14 and an hour and a half after we walked in for “just a sec” we left Dillard’s with the fake jewelry and one top.  One top!

When I picked her up that afternoon, she had mentioned needing to go to Walgreen’s.  I hesitantly asked if she still wanted to go to Walgreen’s.  “No, I’m done.  I just want to go home and put my feet up.  You just wore me out.”  I wore her out?  Are you kidding me?  I felt like I had been rode hard and put up wet.  I couldn’t get her home fast enough.  I went home, took a pain pill, and laid myself down for a nap.  I slept for almost two hours.

I don’t like shopping.  I like virtual shopping.  Give me an order form online that accepts American Express and I am one happy lady.  I don’t like crowds.  I don’t like sales people.  I don’t like trying on, and I have recently found out I’m not crazy about 70 year old women who have nothing better to do than try on blouses.

I don’t know why, but for some reason my third sister’s birthday blog didn’t get published.  I don’t know whether that is regretful or a blessing, but never having been one to take the easy way out…Here nearly a month later is her birthday blog.  If you never hear from me again, make sure she is interviewed thoroughly by the police.

My third sister hates me.  This is not new.  She hated me when I was born and I have done nothing in the last forty-nine years to change her opinion of me.  The problem is, I can’t imagine what it was I did as an infant that soured her on me to begin with.  Today is her birthday and she is fifty-five.  Talk about holding a grudge.

Apparently the problem is that she decided the role of baby of the family was hers.  Seeing as how there had been a girl born to our family in May every three years for the last nine years was enough to have her believe that she was in fact, the baby of the family.  She held on for six years and then by some act of passion I was born in February and her whole life went to hell in a handbasket.  Now here is the part that you will want to pay close attention to…I some how managed to make this happen from my mother’s womb.  You see, my birth is my fault.   Stay with me…I am a single cell being in my mother’s womb, but so highly intelligent that I manage through some type of Vulcan mind meld to convince my parent’s to have sex.  Out of this union I am fertilized and allowed to grow.  For nine months I hatch my evil plan.  I will be everything to this family…the baby daughter, the kid sister, cute and cuddly and absolutely lovable.  That will show her!  After about forty weeks my plan is secure and I make my appearance.  This happens in a snowstorm that will keep my siblings out of school for something like six weeks.  This will allow them to become even more attached to me as I steal her thunder.  While I am growing,  I will do my best to always be cute, intelligent, and lovable.  This will last until I die.  That will show her (insert maniacal laughter here).

She openly hates me.  I don’t harbor such resentment, even though she spent much of my childhood trying to kill me.  When I was very small we lived on a farm and we each had chores to do.  (Well I didn’t…I was like four or something)  Her chore was to gather the eggs.  She would take me with her, which I thought was great fun…little did I know this wasn’t done out of love and joy.  She took me with her so I could reach the nests up high.  She would lift me up and I would blindly gather eggs.  She did this because she knew that snakes might be up there and since she couldn’t see them she wouldn’t know until it was too late.  That is just one example.  She also made me unplug the appliances in any electric storm, made me work like her personal slave over the summer vacation’s when our parent’s would leave her in charge of me, and throw things at my head if I ever dared to talk back.

I am not kidding.  Her misery at having a younger sister fueled her to make me just as effin’ miserable as she was.  I couldn’t wait till she was married and out of the house.  Finally, I felt that my life might continue without the considerable attempts to end it.  She married and moved and had two kids and I thought finally things would simmer down.  Much later, I married and had two kids and it seemed things were, if not fine, at least okay.  Then after her second child was born I found out I was pregnant with my third.  It was like someone dropped a nuclear war head on her.  I remember her telling me, “you just had to have the last grandchild.”  Yeah, that was my plan.  I was one foot out the door in a crappy marriage and was ready to start back to college.  At just that point in my life I find that I am in the midst of a surprise pregnancy.  You betcha’!

It seems like she has been competing with me her entire life, but is it really a competition if one of us is not playing.  You see, here’s the thing…I don’t hate my sister.  I would do anything I could for her, and I mean it.  If she needed an organ and I had a spare…no problem.  If she needs help with anything that I can help her with I am there, and I am honestly hurt that she feels the way she does about me.  I have tried for years to be there for her in anyway I could and it seems that all of my best intentions are met with scrutiny and disdain.  I just want to say once and for all…it is not my fault that mom and dad had sex!!  It is not my fault that birth control pills were made available in 1960 and not 1959, trust me…I realize that if they had been just one year earlier I would not be here.  I know this because mother continued to take the pill for twenty years after she had gone through menopause just to be damned certain that she wouldn’t have any more kids.

It is time to bury the hatchet, and I don’t mean in one another.  Lord have mercy, we are middle aged women.  If you can’t get over a little thing like unprotected sex how are you going to get past most of life’s issues?  We fought enough when we were teens to carry us through for the next one hundred years.  Let’s let bygones be bygones.  So Happy Birthday Sis!  I wish you well.  I wish you love, and happiness and all the grandkids you can handle running through your house.  I know you are just getting started, but trust me I see grandbabies in your future.  I see many snot-nosed love bugs scampering through your house.  Enjoy every minute of it…and when the time comes that you need a sister (other than the two you already like) I’ll be here.

I have been having visual difficulties.  My right eye has been foggy for days now, but I know that one of my meds causes blurred vision.  I walk around most days looking like Popeye.  I have used eye drops and creams and was told by my doctor today that I needed to purchase some moisturizing eye drops, because people with my conditions tend to have dry eyes.  Mind you, I don’t think the problem is dry eyes.  It’s not like my eyes feel like sandpaper or that I am over watering.  I’m just seeing through cellophane.  Normally it’s not horrific.  I just close my bad eye and look through the better one (I want say good eye, because it has its issues too.)

Well today seemed to be a different story.  This morning when I got out of the shower Boppy was still in bed.  I was trying to be very considerate and not wake him up.  The only thing I was missing to complete my grooming routine was my body lotion.  Well, I keep a large basket of samples in the bathroom and I had just recently perused the sample center at Walgreen’s so I figured there was some lotion in there.  Sure enough, after a little digging I found a sample of Nivea’s citrus scented lotion.  I rubbed it on one arm.  It felt sticky, but I rubbed it in as best as I could.  It was very thick and it kind of sparkled on my skin.  The stickiness didn’t go away.  I figured it was one of Nivea’s new skin tightening formulas so I went on and put it on my other arm.  I had the same experience, but still thinking that it was just a new product line I started to apply it to my leg.  After having the same problem with right leg I decided to look and see if this was the new skin tightening formula.  Well it wasn’t the new skin tightening formula.  It was body wash.  I had rubbed body wash into my damp skin.  Great!!  I got a wash cloth and filled the sink with water.  I then proceeded to re-bathe myself.  After completing that task I found a tube plainly marked “Lotion”.

You know I don’t have to tell these stories on myself.  I could just as easily have gone on with my life and never let anyone know that I sometimes, accidentally, bathe myself twice in the same morning.  However, I see it as a public service to inform you that aging isn’t always pretty.  You see, back in the day I was a paraoptometric.  (go ahead, I’ll wait while you look it up)….Okay, I was told a joke in school that said a paraoptometric was just an optometrist who could count above 10.  If you get it, good for you.  Most people don’t realize that their optometrist doesn’t count above 10.  Which is better, 1 or 2, 3 or 4, and so on but never above 10.

Well, the thing I told everyone nearing or at the 40 year old mark was “when you near forty, your vision starts to go.”  Well, I have made it well past that milestone so it is no surprise that my vision is…impaired.  I know this.  It is hard to accept it, but I know it.  I also have to give up my contacts, because dry eyes and contacts don’t mix.  So I will wear my glasses…when I have too.  Just in case, however; I will keep some reading glasses in the bathroom.  That way I can be sure not to use my denture cream as toothpaste. 

I won’t receive any gifts today.  I should, but I won’t.  It’s not a matter of my being greedy.  It’s just that for years I was mother and father both to my kids.  Before Boppy came on the scene, I was a married single parent.  I took the kids fishing, to the movies, taught my middle child how to pitch, taught my older son how to take a hit in baseball, and taught my daughter how to be sweet as sugar or a total bitch depending on what the situation requires.  What I am saying is that my children were always with me.  Where ever the sperm donor went he went alone.  That was his choice.  I really didn’t mind, and I understood not wanting to hang out with him.  I really, really got it.  When we were first separated the kids would try to make him so miserable he would bring them back to me.  It worked at first, then he just insisted they stay with him, miserable or not.  Anyway, once he had to be with them solo, (every other weekend) he did better.  He still didn’t know how to handle them at home, but he would take them places and make an attempt.  For his lame efforts, I took the children to buy him a father’s day card every year, and some kind of gift, which I let them pick out.  Every mother’s day I gladly accepted whatever the children had made at school and knew that he would not have taken them shopping.

Well they are older know and they take great care of me on Mother’s Day.  I am not complaining about that or Mother’s day in general.  I am complaining about the fact that there is no holiday for Mothers who have played both parental roles.  You can’t even find a card for such a thing.  And because so many parents who have played both roles have a spouse somewhere, their children just automatically send a card or gift to the inactive parent.

I don’t blame the kids.  I blame society and the card manufacturers.  Especially the card people, because this whole day was conceived of by them in an effort to have at least 3 more days that people would be compelled to buy a card (at least).  Mother’s day, Father’s day, Grandparent’s day…I am just waiting for Aunt & Uncle’s day,  Cousins day, and everyone’s favorite…”I never met you and will never know you, but thanks for putting your anonymous junk in a cup” day.

My kids are great.  They have turned out to be super adults.  We never speak on the phone that they don’t say “I love you”.  The ones who are close by say I love you at every visit.  My daughter, who is currently living at home, says I love you several times a day.  I never feel neglected…until Father’s day when my stupid ex is accepting some card or gift and all the accolades for being a great dad when he wasn’t.  I never have like when anyone took credit for something I had done, and I still don’t.  I don’t mind Boppy receiving the kids cards or gifts, he entered their lives when they were quite young and has been a very positive role model for them.  He has taken all of them off by himself on several occasions and the kids couldn’t love him more if his DNA ran through their veins.  He has been a spectacular step-dad.  That is part of the reason we don’t have any second parent animosity.  My kids have never screamed at the top of their lungs “you’re not my dad!” because he has never given them a reason to.

I am all for all the wonderful, attentive, loving dads out there getting their kudos.  I just think that all of the mother’s who took over and handled the job duties of both should receive a little pat on the back too.  So:

Happy Father’s Day Mom

You were there when Dad was not.

You cleaned the fish that I had caught.

You marked my height as I grew.

You were the only parent I knew.

You always do whatever I ask,

and in this knowledge I do bask.

You were only missing Mr. Winky,

but my love for you isn’t dinky.

So Happy Father’s Day to my mom,

and my I say you are “The Bomb”!

p.s. Happy Father’s Day Daddy.  I miss you more every day.

I forgot about the insomnia.  I have awoken at 5:30 a.m. for the last two mornings.  That wouldn’t be a problem if I went back to sleep, but that particular joy elludes me.  Did anyone ever mention that insomnia goes with menopause before I actually was experiencing it?  Hell no!  After it started I heard a chorus of “Oh yeah, the insomnia is the worst.”  Thanks a lot.  I know that having known about it wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least I wouldn’t have thought I was defective.

At first I stayed in bed thinking that sleep would come eventually.  Now I get up and read, or play on the computer…I have even been known to do some housework.  That’s how bad it is.  You will do just about anything to have the tiredness wash over you.  It will too.  Just as soon as you need to be awake and alert, the tiredness will hit you like a ton of bricks.  There is nothing quite like nodding off while you are driving down the road.  I have always said  that cars make me sleepy.  Normally that isn’t a problem, but when you are the driver the whole scenario changes.  To borrow a joke from whomever came up with it “I want to die the way my grandfather did…quietly in my sleep.  Not screaming like the other passengers in the car.”  Well if you experience insomnia…don’t drive.  It’s just not wise.  This is the once scenario in which insomnia is life threatening.  It threaten your life and the lives of everyone else on the road.

Insomnia sucks.  I can’t say it is the worse symptom of menopause.  There are so many sucky symptoms of menopause it would be hard to pick the worst.  I can’t even begin to name them all.  Many of them were attributed to other things.  Fever, incontinence, becoming a werewolf…yes the extra facial hair can make you wonder if at some point you were actually able to sleep and then had the misfortune to be bitten by a werewolf.   Don’t look for bite marks.  You won’t find any.  Just look for a hair removal system that works for you.

There are good things about menopause, and as soon as I find out what they are I will report on them as well.   I know that some women think it is the inability to have children (I would probably go with that one except for the fact that I had a tubal many years ago).  Others think that the inability to have children decreases their feminine appeal.  I would not be with a man who looked up me as a brood mare, and I am an effin’ fertility Goddess.  I don’t understand why anyone would want to have a child in their late 40’s or 50’s.  I am too tired to look after myself, let alone deal with the activity of a toddler.  Don’t get me wrong, I love The Precious but after a couple of hours of nonstop two-ness I am ready for an alcoholic beverage and a nap.

So tonight when I go to sleep I will combat the insomnia with the help of pharaceuticals, and believe me I have a few.  In addition to my usual concoction of pain killers and muscle relaxers I will add a prescription sleep aid.  I try not to use it too frequently, I am afraid I will become addicted.  However, after two or three nights of sleeplessness I gladly open that bottle.  I’m no saint and I have never claimed to be.  For now however, I am going to slap on some sunscreen and go lie in the pool.  I will probably have a nap while I am out there.  Hey, sleep if you can, right?  It’s not like I will be driving while I am out there. 

I love The Precious to the moon and back, but when someone calls me his Grandma I just cringe.  It’s not that I have a problem with being his father’s mother.  My problem is with the word Grandma.  I just don’t like it.  I have heard my sister’s called Grandma by their grandchildren and it just isn’t a pretty word.  I think it is because it ends in Ma.  Ma just sounds hillbilly. It’s not the only word I dislike (I hate the word fudge too, among others).  I know…I catch a lot of hell about it.  People think I just don’t think I’m old enough to be someone’s grandmother.  That’s not it.  I know exactly how old I am and I am plenty old enough to be a grandparent.  I don’t have a problem with being introduced as a grandmother, it’s the Ma that rankles.

That is why, when we were discussing what the “human bean” would call me, we thought long and hard.  Many things were considered.  I ruled out some, my hubby ruled out some,  my son and non-vag daughter ruled out some…and then we decided on “M”.  Just like in the James Bond movies.  It was supposed to stand for Majesty, but also matriarch, or mother.  (I still think it was Majesty)  When the Precious was old enough to talk he made it Emmy.  Now I have to admit, that was just too precious for words.  So I have become Emmy.  Everyone can tell by looking that I am his grandmother.  I’m not trying to fool anyone.  I am just his Emmy. 

Today I went to pick him up from school so we could go swimming.  I walked into the hallway that runs alongside his room and knocked on the window.  He looked up and shouted, “My Emmy!” and made a break for the door.  By the time I got around to the door he was in the hall and coming for me full throttle.  I got a real hard hug real quick.  Nothing is sweeter than the enthusiasm he shows when he sees me.  It doesn’t have to be at school.  When they come over and I am out in the yard as soon as he sees me he starts bouncing around in the car seat and squealing my name.  I’m pretty sure I would feel the same if he call me Horsecrap, but thank God he calls me Emmy.  Because he does, I’m pretty sure any additional grandchildren I have will as well.

Grandma is fine for other people.  My sister’s are all Grandmas and my mom is a Granny.  That’s great.  But if we have a family gathering and I hear “Emmy” I’m pretty sure it will be aimed at me.  I won’t have to break my neck looking to see if it’s one of my grandchildren or someone else’s.  Emmy and Boppy just work for the hubby and me.  We are Emmy and Boppy kind of people.  Just ask The Precious.  Trust me, he knows everything…and that’s not just an Emmy bragging.

It is ridiculous to call the buckets of sweat that poor off of me over the course of the night “night sweats.” You can tell a man coined that phrase. A woman would have been more inventive. We would have come up with something along the lines of “nocturnal Niagara’s” or “sheet soakers”. You know, something that aptly describes waking up in a puddle of your own sweat, pajamas drenched, hair looking like something out of Woodstock. I understand that right now the estrogen is on the outs. I get that. What I don’t understand is how a person can possibly lose 10 pounds of liquid in a room that is a piping hot 69 degrees.

I start out with a lightweight pair of pajamas or nightie encased in a set of soft cotton sheets. I end up in a lot less lying on a towel, because I absolutely refuse to wake my husband up at 6:00 in the morning to change the sheets. Especially when he has only been asleep about an hour. Again, no one told me about the joys of night sweats. In my innocent mind when I heard “night sweats” I assumed that I would sweat, much as I do in the daytime only at night. Hence the name “night”…”sweats”. WRONG!! No one told me that this “symptom” would cause you to wake up freezing because your night clothes are soaked and so are the sheets. No one told me that while I might glisten during the day under the same A/C that seems insufficient at night, I would actually man sweat at night. Man sweat is not pretty on a woman!

If I start creating a list of all the things no one told me would happen to me during the change it would probably wrap around the world and have a cute little tail to boot. And why in the hell is it called the change? Nothing about me has changed…I am still female (even improved because I don’t have to endure a period every month), I still have breasts (fabulous ones if I do say so myself), a vagina, two legs, two arms, and a huge mouth. I haven’t changed into a willowy blonde with a vacant look plastered on her face. I haven’t turned into a man, just because I am currently operating with reduced estrogen and sweating like one..periodically. I have, however, noticed that I have much more difficulty locating things since I had my uterus removed. I am beginning to think it actually was a locating device, just like I told the men in my life. Let’s just call it what it is…hell!
The body that I have known for half a century has began to behave differently. It’s not changing it is just morphing into something else, not someone else. Perhaps when I emerge from my chrysalis I will be a butterfly. A beautiful monarch with lovely wings and a body that doesn’t sweat like a fat Mexican man on a hot day eating jalapenos in the middle of the desert on a clear night. Is that too much to ask? I mean after all, I didn’t ask for my cellulite to be removed from my thighs. I didn’t ask to lose the 60 pounds that I know I need to lose and everyone else is pretending not to notice. I didn’t even ask for a face lift and I really, really, want a face lift. All I asked for was not to sweat like a ho’ beast at night. At least for now. I haven’t given up on those other things I just mentioned. I mean, I am taking a break to throw people off, but I haven’t given up…they should have known I wouldn’t.

You know I am mostly okay with the menopause thing. I don’t want any more babies. Hell, I won’t even let The Precious stay over night unless it is a matter of life and death. I love the not having a period every 28 days. I am reconciling myself to the increased facial hair (thanks Smoothe Away), and wouldn’t mind the few additional pounds if they were indeed a “few” pounds. I am okay with most of the crap that goes along with aging in general…I am not handling the fact that half of my life is over and I only have half of my life to live. That’s a real bummer. As it is, I would have to live to be 100 to just be middle aged. Yikes!! So I am going to learn to just deal with this menopause thing…sweats and all. I’m a good swimmer, it shouldn’t kill me.

 

So the hubby and I just watched He’s Just Not That Into You and I am so amazed we ever found each other.  I can’t believe Hollywood is so jaded.  If you watched this movie and took it verbatim you would have to believe that happiness, and finding the right person rarely happen.

I have often commented that I am glad to be out of the dating scene.  I never was one of those people who jumped from person to person.  I am a very loyal person and when I am with someone, I am with them 100%.  I had the same boyfriend throughout high school…I found out after the fact that he was a real jerk and I would have been better off without him…but I only dated him.  When it came to my first marriage, let’s just say I was not in a position to make a clear headed decision.  I was 19 and had a child.  I fully believed that no one would ever take the two of us on with all the baggage I was bringing into the relationship.  When he proposed (if you can honestly call it a proposal) I said yes.  I stuck it out a lot longer than I should have and eventually wised up and moved out.  Third time was charmed.  I met my hubby in college.  He saw me through my divorce and was my sounding board throughout the whole process.  He became my best friend, and then he became my boyfriend and now after 14 years of marriage he still makes me smile, sometimes he even makes me laugh out loud.  He is great with my kids and always has been.  He is 100% trustworthy and I never worry about our relationship coming to an end.  I am pretty certain that will occur when I die.  We just lucked into one another.  Neither of us was looking for the person we were going to spend the rest of our lives with, it just happened.  So why do so many movies portray men as cheating bastards and marriage as hell on earth?

After watching He’s Just Not That Into You I wanted to kill myself.  It was so depressing watching these actors portraying people who were either in relationships where neither of them was being fulfilled, or single and desperately searching for Mr. Right, or married to a cheating husband.  If I had been single I might have been led to believe that there was no hope of ever meeting a nice guy.  If I had been married to anyone other than my husband, I might have been led to believe that every man was a cheater.  Trust me when I say that there are men in this world who will marry you, put your needs before his, and never even consider the possibility of cheating.

Obviously I didn’t particularly enjoy the film.  I get riled up when I hear people say that all men cheat or at least want to.  I really hate it when someone says that it is in their nature to spread their seed.  That is just ridiculous.  This is the lie that cheaters tell so that they have an out for their outrageous behavior.  There is no out for cheaters, unless wimpy women with no self esteem allow them to get away with it with the ridiculous decision to “forgive and forget.”  You will never forget.  You may forgive, but every phone call will raise your suspicions.  Every trip out alone will make you wonder if he is really going where he said.   Without trust there is no marriage.  Trust is the very tapestry of a marriage, and while the examples I am giving are of men, the same holds true for women. 

I know that a story about a strong marriage is not good cinema.  No one would put a camera in the living room of a man and woman who have been happily married for years and still respect and love each other.  The basic premise of a marriage is that you don’t make any decision without thinking of how this will effect your spouse.  If it is going to hurt them in any way then it should be avoided.  Easy peasy.  My husband is always on my mind.  If I am grocery shopping I am thinking of what he would like to eat.  If I am doing laundry I always do his clothes first so that he will be taken care of.  These things are not conscious decisions that I make, they are simply things I do because I love him.

Life is to short to be in a relationship with someone you don’t love.  Cheating is unacceptable.  End one relationship before you begin another.  It is not rocket science.  It is simply the right thing to do.  Okay, I’ll step off my soap box now.  Just make sure that when you are in a relationship, you are not the only one putting your significant other first.  It is, and always has been, give and take.  Just make sure you receive as much as you give, and whatever you do don’t give it away to someone else.

I survived The Precious’s birthday bash, and am still kicking.  I got up today and could hardly move, but the important thing to remember is I got up today.  The party was a roaring success.  We totally Budin’ed out the house.  We had Budin balloons, tablecloth, cups, plates, cupcakes, and cake.  The guest of honor walked into a Budin’ wonderland.  He was so excited there was no corralling him.  He looked at the birthday table with nothing short of absolute mesmerization.  At one point he was looking from his cake to his shoes, chanting “Budin’ cake…Budin’ shoes.  Budin’ Cake…Budin’ shoes” over and over.  When he finally was allowed to blow out his candles the smile on his face went from ear to ear.  It was definitely a great day.

But today the balloons are deflated, the carpet (which my non-vag daughter already vacumed once) is still covered in cake crumbs, and my joints feel like I personally lifted every child at his party.  Not just once, but in a full body press for several repetitions.  Who knew that having a two year old’s party could cause your body to collapse.  All I want now is a sunny day to lie in the pool.  Okay, maybe a sunny week would better serve, but I’ll take a day if that’s all there is.   I didn’t get in the pool yesterday.  Way too many skinny, female bodies were in there.  I might as well have though, since I was soaked long before the party was over.  However; I have reached a phase of life that has caused me to come up with a size guide for pool guests.  If you don’t have two numbers in the size of your (one piece, please) swimsuit you may not swim in my pool.  Obviously, this does not apply to The Precious and his pre-school buddies, but when their skinny mommies get in the pool with them…I don’t swim.

Pretty much I don’t swim anyway.  I will swim out to my raft then float for hours, moving only to flip over to the other side.  Well flip makes it sound easy and light…it is more of a grunt and moan movement that generally creates quite a wave in the pool.  I only do it once an hour.  Sometimes I fear that someone is going to try and throw me a sardine as I flop (yes, that aptly describes it) over.   I try not to bark, but the moaning with movement can be mistaken at times.

Lately the weather around here has been much like that in Seattle.  The sunshine is mostly of the liquid variety.  It rains daily it seems and I sometimes wonder if it will ever quit.  Gray and cloudy is not good for those of us suffering with depression.  Of course even if the sun was shining the economy is not good for those of us suffering with depression.  There is so much going on right now that contributes to my depression, and I love it when idiots say “just get over it.”  Oh what a good idea!  I wish I had thought of that!  I’ll just get over it!  I am missing a chemical that triggers my brain to produce the melatonin I need, but hey…I’ll just get over it!  Idiots!!!  Sometimes I just want to slap a bitch! 

July is coming though.  I am sure that I will be complaining about the sun in a few weeks.  Normally the sun keeps me from aching and I welcome it, but the warm weather hasn’t done squat for me yet.  I think the barometric pressure is to blame.   I’m no meteorologist, so what do I know.  I know the pain and ache of arthritis for one thing, and something has been triggering mine for quite a while now.  It makes me bitchy.  Can you tell?  Maybe I should just get over it.  (insert super angry expression here)  I am currently so cranky that I am struggling to be nice just so people won’t know the kind of pain I’m in.  Seriously, no one wants to hear you bitch about your aches and pains.  That’s why I have this blog…so I can bitch to you people and you can either read it or not…Your call.  So if you are still reading, have a great ‘effing day and enjoy the liquid sunshine…m’er f’ers.

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