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8:32 p.m. - 2011-07-26
Ready or not here I come.

I've been hiding.

This week, yes, but in other ways too. Which I'll get to, maybe.

Not writing this week was me hiding because I was one big snarl. Both the 'angry roaring' and the 'all knotted together' kind.

I'm angry with my kid. Wolf's taken a lot of shit this week. All of it his, well deservedly his. The Dalai Mama has left the building. Don't care what his issues are. The boy needs to remove his head from his rectum and shape up. My son was shocked to discover Mom's a dab hand with a crowbar and so far I've applied my skill quite liberally and intend to keep prying his head out of his ass for as long as it takes until the child learns to not keep sticking his head back up there. Since it took 8½ years to convince him he HAD to get up for school and be out the door on time and do this without making me gibber and weep with frustration every damn morning you can see we're in for another long haul here. But hey, it's not like I'm doing anything else with my time.

Which brings me to the next thing- namely that setting up a flea circus in my pubes, aiming a video camera at my crotch and running a 24-7 live feed of my talented flea friends doing their thing in my skerce and greying Eve's thicket would be far more pleasant than living one more freaking week with this multi-system breakdown that is menopause.

I can't think! God in Heaven I've turned into an idiot. Tell me something and it's gone right out of my brain 15 seconds later. Sometimes I can't hold onto to a thought long enough to write it down. Making appointments is an agony. I couldn't remember my zip code the other day. I've considered having my PIN tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. It's bad.

I eat like an anaconda. Swallowing an entire goat and then, belly distended beyond the laws of physics, spend the next few days lying in my chair digesting and burping. Then when I'm able to move again I can't eat at all for another week or so, everything tastes horrible. Then it begins again- goat, bloat, burp, blech.

Cry? I haven't had make-up on in 10 days. No point. The last time I tried doing my face I starting crying while I was putting my mascara on. Instant Alice Cooper. Gave up on make-up, soooo not worth the bother. If I'm crying the stuff off before it's even all on…feh.

Angry? There's no good word to describe how nutzoid I am. Psycho is overused. Loony is too fun. Clowns are loony. Screw Pennywise. Don't talk to me about Pennywise. I'm too crazed for a squeaky nose. Besides, Pennywise adored being evil and I'm not finding this fun at all. Scared the crap out of an old lady at Shoprite the other day. I'd gone into a fugue state in the produce department trying desperately to remember whether I needed mushrooms or if I'd wanted red peppers to roast and put in the sauce instead…and anyway the old lady nudges me with her cart instantly snapping me out of my trance. I swung around and shrieked, "WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?"

I think she wet herself.

I apologized of course, but she waved me off with a frown, her hand held to her breast. So I slunk away, paid for the few items I had, and cried all the way home.

We had tuna sandwiches for dinner that night.

It's like this all the damn time. And the physical stuff is just as fun. The palms of my hands are as exploded and messy as my feet, absolutely the wrong fricken time of year for wearing gloves and snow boots too, just my stinkin' luck. Individual pieces of my body have gone off their chump. I can actually watch my boobs swell and deflate. What used to take a week during my cycle now happens in minutes. I get up in the morning. Blorp! Blorp! Blorp! I am the Watermelon Queen! By mid-afternoon…Fffffssssshhhhhttt. Windsock City. And they do this just for the hell of it. The mammaries' tidal surges have absolutely no correlation with what's going on downstairs. None. Just a middle-aged set of tits gone wild.

I'm not whining without trying to help myself. Please, I feel bad enough. All those poor people in Norway and here I am puling about hormones. Another reason I kept my yap shut for so long. My life sucks greasy donkey turds right now, at least to me it does (Mick and Wolf too, poor things), but I've got perspective here. 'Kay?

I have:

Started taking a menopause nutritional supplement. Very easy on the plant estrogens, I want this over I am so not going to prolong it by tweaking my estrogens back up. But the stuff is heavy on the other things, the nice stuff like calming B vitamins and calcium and herby things like black cohosh. Whether it really works or just gives me a nice placebo effect burst of good will because I'm being pro-active, I don't care.

I am maintaining a decent level of physical activity. I am not going to the gym on my own. While MIL's laid up with the foot I am staying off my ass and keeping busy around here. Not the best, but decluttering my house helps declutter my brain (a little). Besides, it's too hot for the gym. The place was a sauna when it was in the 70s, can you imagine how bad it is in there with the temperature outside is nearly 100 every day? Blerg.

I am working on my appearance. Okay, my no make-up, puffy eyed, grump face isn't winning any accolades, but I stopped biting my nails and keep them nice. I highlighted my hair. It's still overgrown and badly shaped but the color is good. I wear booty shorts around the house but do not wear them in public so I've been wearing all my pretty gauze dresses to beat the heat. Finally stopped mourning the loss of my babe-i-tude and have embraced my Earth Mother time. Stevie Nicks: part deux- The Hot Flash Years.

Lord knows when I'll be back. Could be 2 days or 20 minutes. I'm the last one to find out what I'm doing next. And you know me, I hate surprises.

Oy, oy, oy, oy…~LA

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