I went off my expensive, but apparently effective, hormone fix-it therapy six weeks ago for no other reason than I wanted to see if it was really making a difference.
Honey, it most certainly was.
I have been sliding into a raging mess of self absorbed nastiness, coasting on a golden high ball of extreme bitchiness, skating through the past four weeks fueled by sheer willpower, running wild on a streak of increasing venom. Your curvy, good looking, sharp minded brunette friend has turned into a raving, self absorbed, borderline berserk, mentally deficient harridan.
Frankly speaking, I’ve been barely gripping the thin sides of life. This menopause portion of life is a motherfucker of mind-bending proportions. Can’t I just go grey without my mind and body going to war with itself? It would be nice to hold a cogent thought for more than thirty seconds or finish a task without heading off on another tangent that will also remain, shamefully, unfinished and I’d consider it a sheer blessing if Super Freak would leave my poor brain alone.
After canceling my Visa account, tracking down and punching the dippy adman who dreamed up this bit of slow drip, mental torture straight in his fat nads ranks extremely high on my to-do list. Did this culturally ignorant knob never hear of Robert Cray? I could live with that sweet, hip rolling groove crawling through my days, instead I’m feeling thoroughly molested by this thrusting piece of she’s a very kinky girl horrible eighties nostalgia running an endless, lousy harmonic loop while I’m trying to maintain some semblance of shaky hormonal sanity. This adman should be severely tortured within three inches of his worthless life.
I digress, which is normal these days. My body is still swinging the monthly cycles with full brio, my babymaker is apparently willing to accept work despite my adamant commitment to a life of barrenness after dropping three manly souls on the planet. My demented uterus seems to have a mind of its own, this crazy bitch would love to entertain full blown, black tie balls in her crumbling castle. This forty six year old girl is still in full game, party mode. Which is some small benefit to the wonderful man who has to live with the rest of my current bouts of madness. Tally ho, baby!
I’m self absorbed, my acuity is failing, my patience is nonexistent, killing annoying strangers seems reasonable and my sex drive is rocking full steam ahead. Thankfully my huge order of pills just arrived because these mid forties are one hell of a weird ride.
Thank God my mother kept all this to herself.
Get well soon.
Hmmm. I missed out on all this fun, seeing as how The Second Mrs. Pennington bailed just slightly before the onset of menopause. And based on what I just read, I’m thinking I’m pretty damned lucky, too. Sorta. Hey… “bright side,” and all that.
I’m glad your shipment arrived in the nick o’ time. :D
WEEEEeeeeee!
Forgive me but that was hysterical.
Roll with it, baby. Enjoy the ups, ignore the downs and float unfettered for a while, by conventions and oughts. The ADD is a creative influx so find a channel for it, quick!
And yes, this was very funny stuff, and so unfunny too.
I hear you, my sister in the mental pause.
I told the man of the house today that I have had it with the whole vitamin/herbal supplement hormone replacement thing and to bring on the pregnant mare’s urine.
I am ready to mainline it at this point and he is ready to let me!
Daphne
If you think mid-forties are challenging, I bring you a message from the late forties …….brace yourself!!
Yeah, I’ll have a teenager in the house by then, David.
Oh joy.
It reminds me of a bit Stephen Colbert did about gynecology. His delivery was carefully crafted to suggest he was speaking from personal experience, and the resulting dichotomy was hilarious. “Now this tool might feel strange, cold and metallic on your vagina, but it’s nothing to be alarmed about…”
Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll do my best to keep my hormones in check. At least I’ve got a few years left before my breasts start sagging.
This is what happens when you have too much testosterone coursing through your system. I suspect. Now it’s wreaking havock. (sp?)
The only time I had a lot of testosterone coursing through my system was when I was pregnant with my boys. Whoa baby!
Lets just say that I was easily capable of putting in a French drain, raised veg and flower beds, and a thousand pounds of gravel during that brief, but welcome surge of testosterone when I was preg with my boys and their extra testosterone donations.
*sigh* I kinda miss that.
Us testosterone challenged just have to put up with some night sweats and weight gain.
P.S.
Stephen Colbert looks like he has way too much estrogen coursing through him. He looks like one of those old guys who are turning into lesbians as they age.
Just saying.
I think he looks gay, gay, gay.
Oh and Morgan, on you we’d call them moobs. ;-)
p.p.s.
The eighties sucked. I was there, and when I forget, there’s youtube and the old Andy Gibb and Bee Gees albums I have stashed in the basement.
yeah, we call them “moobs” around here too. ;)
To. Crazy bitch owner of demented uterus
The staff at Mel and Ned’s Marine Salvage (Mel and Ned) would like to invite you to our Annual Black Tie Ball.
This year’s theme: If you have sex in the forest and there’s no one there to hear, were you still pretty lousy?
Conveniently located on Perineum Parkway between Symphysis and Coccyx, just down the road from Lance de Boyle’s Toupe World. Our Motto.
“Sure, our toupes are made of road kill, but you look like shit as it is.”
When? Any time’s fine with Mel and Ned.
Attire. Heels is all. We have to maintain standards.
All I can give you is my favorite palate cleanser.
As an engineer, my madness tends towards this (reads clockwise), so I think Vega is a genius for NOT rhyming.
So. I see you’ve been reading my diary again.
Excellent description.
I went through this particular crazy time a few years ago and wouldn’t take a million dollars to do it agian.
Sister, all I can tell you is that eventually the madness ends and you find a new balance. At least that’s the way it was for me and most of my friends.
Once in a while I still have the strange dreams of regret that I will never have another child; I wake up knowing that my subconscious is a primitive fool. I retain the intellectual itch to provide a few selected conservative men with offspring, and am content with the theoretical surrogate of helping to spread their words.
I went through this before I finally had a hysterectomy. Best thing that ever happened to me. Now I sit sipping champagne, laughing with friends as I peer at it in the mason jar on my mantle. Or was that just a dream?
I was going to write that I can only imagine, but I’ve been on the outside looking in a couple of times now.
If we could only recruit a few battalions of such women, ship them to Afghanistan, hand them the keys to the armory and RUN!, I think we could sort out the Taliban, Al-queda and any other misogynistic religious movements.
I can just see Mullah Omar trying to explain to Daphne that she must wear a full-body black canvas sack in the heat of summer. The result: well, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.