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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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1:16 p.m. - 2013-06-15
I think I am finally in my year. You know, the year. Magic time. My countdown clock is running. Last week when I was being admitted for the ultrasound the admission lady asked, "Date of last menstrual period? Or don't you get it anymore?" I had a shocked moment when I realized it's been five months already. I busted out in a big grin (despite being there to see if any lethal blood clots were all plumped up and ready to kill me) and replied, "Holy moly, it's been five months! I think I'm in my year!" She smiled at me and said, "You go, girl." Not everything about my miserable monthlies has gone away. I'm still getting fierce cravings for General's chicken and nacho cheese Doritos every few weeks and around the first of the month I'm apt to be a might testy for a couple days. But otherwise I feel pretty good. The confusion and inability to make decisions has dropped away and I am sharp as a new pin again. I don't shout at strangers anymore. And I can say the word 'puppies' without bursting into tears. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all. Of course my night vision is for shit. But it was never great to begin with. However (except for the lumpy leatherish age spots) my skin has turned to parchment. Tender parchment. Museum curators would handle me with those white cotton gloves and think long and hard about removing me from the climate-controlled vault before touching me at all. The nose pads on my glasses are actually making rents in the sides of my nose. I'm not too crazy about the parchment skin. At the risk of being shunned at any future social gatherings I admit the daily shower is a thing of the past. My poor thin dermis can't take it. Sure, the moist bits and my face get a daily cleanse but the whole body immersion is left to whimsy and/or true need. Say like brushing up against the poison ivy that grows so lushly and well in my yard. I think I might always sleep hot but the daytime flashes are gone. I can't remember the last time I did this... I assume Rick Baker and John Landis must have watched their mothers going through menopause to have written that scene. "Hey, Mom? You know that thing you do with the sweat and the howling? Well we're going to use it in the movie, okay?" Mick and I went out for sushi last night. Nothing fancy, we ate at this little knock-around place next-door to the pizzeria where Wolf and I have lunch every Tuesday. 'Fusion' is far too grand a word, but they do make both Japanese and Chinese dishes. Along with our rolls we each ordered an entree- Mick's Chinese and I ordered a bento box dinner. YUM! An astonishing pile of food in that thing too. Mick was envious and said he's getting that next time. Now about the sushi, we don't order raw fish sushi. Fortunately like everything else Americans swipe from other cultures we've adapted sushi to suit the Burger King crowd and there's all kinds of tasty 'sushi' that nobody in Japan would recognize. I mean, there's the 'Philly' roll that has fricken cream cheese in it, for Pete's sake! Mick and I like spicy tuna and spicy crab rolls and shrimp tempura roll. The hibachi place offers something called 'sweetie roll' that's awesomely delicious and we haven't a clue what's in it. For lunch I'll pick up California roll or cucumber roll sometimes. As much as I can appreciate the aesthetic value of the real stuff, one of my favorite documentaries is 'Jiro Dreams of Sushi', this girl just cannot do the raw fish thing. Father's Day. Never been a day that's had much gestalt with me. Firstly I've never had a father or I've had several depending on how you look at things. (Getting married was my mother's favorite hobby.) In any case all the quasi-fathers are long gone. Thanks to Mick I seem to have worked through my residual daddy issues. Mick calls me 'Baby' and 'Princess' and has given me things like twirly ballerina jewelry boxes. He also regularly assures me I can do and be anything I want and he has my back about it. Except for maybe teaching me to fish that's about all I needed the primary man in my life to do for me. So I'm good. Though my sons have the same biological father they have different dads. Wolf marvels over it. "Mick is my dad but he is not Alex's!" He enjoys having this leg-up on his been there, done that elder brother. Alex who can grow a beard and has been to Europe and college and can go to theme parks anytime he wants to. (This is pretty much Wolf's view of adult privilege- having money and a car to go to Six Flags at will.) Wolf relishes having his own personal dad. He is Mick's and Mick is his. Though tomorrow he'll spend the day with the ex. Mostly so Wolf can go see the new Superman movie on opening weekend. We want to see it but make it a point to avoid opening weekends. One because the opening weekend numbers seem to be the be-all end-all of Hollywood decision making and I resent this. There are many good movies that go thirsting for screen time because they're the kind of films that need some nurturing and good word of mouth before they pick up steam. Here in the land of the mall multiplexes we're always stuck with the idiotic dude-a-riffic boffo hyper-advertised crap for the boy market and hardly anything for actual adults or God forbid women gets a screen. Hell, even 'The King's Speech' had to be nominated for an Oscar before it made into any of our local cinematic offal houses. And two, neither Mick nor I can bear the horrible text/talk buffoonery that is the norm these days. We try to pick movie times at odd hours and on weeknights hoping against hope there will be fewer assholes in the theater with us. Drives me to tears how rude people are at the movies nowadays. Look like we might actually have clear skies for most of the day today and that means barbeque. Gotta go put the meat to marinade and get my tongs and asbestos apron out.
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