Perimenopause Still Sucks Moldy Balls, Four Years Later

Ladies, I never promised you a rose garden. Here we are, four years after my doctor told me that my hormone levels were, on a scale of one to ten, somewhere around dust. Those words were, at the time, music to my ears since I was long since done having children and bleeding like a stuck pig every fucking month. The excitement was off the charts! Then, oh then, I found out that it could last something like ten years. Ten goddamn years. What the holy mother of the baby Jesus are you talking about? I have to do this for how long? Who has the time or the patience? Certainly not I! But, with an end in sight, I took up my cross and plodded forward. It can't and it won't go on forever. I can do this. Right? Bless me with all that is holy and good, I've considered digging into my own vagina with a long tool and yanking my uterus out violently and with great malice. Whether it be common sense, a fear of actually killing myself accidentally, or not being in possession of said tool, I haven't done it...yet. Fast forward to today. All those symptoms I've described to you, still in full annoying as all fuck force and now being joined by new ones. In case you've forgotten them considering the mental fog we are all walking around in...Why Perimenopause Sucks Moldy Balls should remind you.

Feeling bone tired no matter how much I sleep. Can I get a show of hands if you are drinking way more coffee than you ever have in your entire life? I can't be the only one who is feeling like her ass is dragging the floor every day. The absolute worst time is in the morning. That alarm goes off and I'd swear there are tears in my eyes. The first thing I do, after peeing, is stumble downstairs and turn on the coffee maker. Why? Because I need coffee to take a shower. Pathetic, yes. But it's my reality and I've learned to deal with it...using copious amounts of very strong coffee. The exhaustion, for me, leads to a lack of motivation to do basic things. Cleaning the house has become a feat that feels like I'm plowing the fields, barefoot, using my hands. Something that used to only require pumping up some righteous tunes, grabbing those paper towels and Mrs. Meyers spray. Today, I have to psych myself up like a prize fighter getting ready for a bout. I sure would love to have half of my energy back. Perimenopause, you harsh mistress, give it back!

Night sweats. Like sleeping hot flashes with a hose turned on your entire upper body. Nothing says good night's sleep like waking up from it soaked and needing to change your shirt and pillowcase. Luckily, these don't come all too frequently. When they do, I feel like I'm on fire and it jars me awake because my drenched hair is dripping on my face and neck. Because I'm not tired enough without the joys of interrupted sleep. I know I'm giving off fierce heat in those moments because even the cats can't come near me and they will sleep on me in the dead heat of summer. Don't for a minute think that the hot flashes have stopped. They are still a large part of my life. I often find myself asking someone at work if it's really friggin hot and did our landlords turn on the heat, only to hear, "It's not hot at all, it's actually kind of cold." Cold my ass. Why am I holding my hair up and fanning my neck like my life depends on it? Why do my cheeks feel like I've spiked a massive fever? Oh, right. The evil otherwise known as perimenopause.

Thinning hair. My hair used to be so thick, I'd break pony tail holders trying to put my hair up. Now, I feel like I've regressed and my hair is more like that of a toddler. Okay, maybe not THAT thin, but certainly thin enough to be held tightly between a circle made by my pointer finger and thumb. What the hell? Do we not suffer enough as women? Can't we keep our crowning glory well into our forties? Why do we have to have something so basic stripped from us while we are in our prime? Can't be a balding cougar, now can we? Not that I am suggesting that is the only reason to have nice hair. How about the fact that most of us work and need to be seen in public on a regular basis. How about the fact that our hair makes us look youthful and pretty? How about the plain and simple fact that a woman going bald is probably more unattractive than a bag of assholes? Men can rock a chrome dome, we cannot. We are not made that way. We wear makeup, we use hair products. You need hair for that!!! Baby Jesus, leave my hair out of this "natural, beautiful" process.

This one is a doozy and if you can't handle the truth, stop reading here. The cough pee. Yes, you read that right. Peeing when you cough. This didn't occur after childbirth so don't go all Kegel Nazi on me. I gave birth almost 20 years ago at the youthful age of 24. My bladder and pelvic floor weren't affected at all back then. But do explain to me why, at 44, my muscles aren't doing their job now. If you see me crossing my legs...chances are, the next thing I am about to do is cough. Since I've been coughing since Christmas, this is a regular occurrence. I guess my thighs are getting a workout, but REALLY?!?! Why is this even necessary? I cough like a barking seal, is that not embarrassing enough? Clearly not. If I'm home, I'll run up the stairs and sit on the toilet to cough. That's hot. Talk about a sexy MILF. 'Scuse me while I cough in the can. I know, you want some of that.

How about we keep on the path of the gross and unmentionable and talk about the spotting? I don't mean just your run of the mill between period spotting, because that is a given during perimenopause. I'm talking about the spotting after any sexual activity. Oh yes, I went there. Orgasms lead to uterine contractions for those of you ignorant of basic human anatomy. And since your uterus has gone over to the dark side at this point, it chooses to ruin your fun by spewing out a little bit of liquidy off color happiness. That's really the epitome of desirable right there. Not to say it happens every time. But enough to make you second guess your need for sexy time. Do I want to chance staining the sheets? I just changed them. UGH. Can we just jump to the end and directly into menopause? Is there a rule that we have to go through the prelude instead of skipping over this shit? I don't need to follow a straight line. When do I ever?

One day, this will all be a distant memory. One day, I will look back on all this and laugh. Truthfully, I laugh about it now. Ahora en este momento as one of my closest friends likes to say. How can you not laugh at this shit? The symptoms may suck rancid donkey dong, but ladies, I ask you...don't you find it all funny as fuck? Only women go through all this which says what? It says that we are the stronger sex. Not only do we go through PMS, periods for decades, pregnancy, and childbirth, but we forge through this nightmare and come out on the other end as pretty fucking amazing women. Our bodies can take it all. Fucking incredible when you think about it. Recall the stupid joke about not trusting anyone who bleeds for 7 days and doesn't die? How about us? We basically hemorrhage for 9-15 days and not only don't we die, but we go to work, care for families, run households, and lead completely normal lives. We're superheroes! Are you friggin kidding me right now???


For answers to men's questions:
Smart Answers to Dumb Questions About Perimenopause

50 Shades of Shut the Fuck Up Already

Would we be so up in arms if the main characters were reversed? Would angry moms be protesting outside movie theaters if the man was being dominated? I am going to go out on a limb and say hell to the no. But we all jump ugly when we perceive something as a crime against women. Do you know what domestic violence actually is? Another time I'm going to stretch here and say you haven't a fucking clue because you never lived with it, never witnessed it, never survived to tell the story. Yet, here you are, screaming with righteous indignation about a book trilogy that was turned into a movie. Did you actually read all three books? Do you understand the lifestyle? And do you also comprehend that things are made more dramatic for Hollywood? The movie bears some resemblance to the book, but not completely, as is the usual way for Hollywood to treat such things. It's neither bad nor good. It just is. Why the raging fury?

Let's start with your laundry list of how Christian is abusing Ana.

1. He is a stalker. I'll give you that. This is a man with way too much power and he is used to getting what he wants. He actually has no idea how to approach the situation. If you read the whole book, you'll see he is ignorant as fuck about this. He is trying to feel out the situation, figure her out, determine if she would be amenable to his desires. Trust me when I tell you, his intent was not to intimidate or scare her. Had he done that, would she have succumbed to his wishes? She'd have called the cops and let them deal with him. He intrigued her. Mission accomplished.

2. He tells her when to eat and what to eat. I'm going in two directions with this one. One, she is horrid at taking care of herself. That is evidenced throughout. She is young and foolish. He was looking out for her best interest. However, you can say he was being controlling. Fine, he is being controlling. Did you also know that in the BDSM scene, the dom often controls when the sub pisses and shits? Bet you didn't. They remove the burden of decision-making and take over even the basic stuff. It's part of dominating someone. Some only order their sub around and never touch them. In their scene, it works for them. It's another world, a world you don't understand. That's fine, as long as you don't stand in judgement of it.

3. He "takes" her against her will. Does he? Really? Are you determining this based on Hollywood's sensationalizing the content of the book? Are you fearful of a lifestyle you don't understand? Allow me to enlighten you a bit. The submissive holds all the power in a BDSM scene. He/she decides how far, how much, to continue or to stop. The submissive is the person handing over their body to the Dom. The Dom isn't taking it. Sex against one's will is rape. Sex in which a rape fantasy is fulfilled is not actual rape. Note the difference. Remember, there was a contract in the movie and the book. She eventually asks for it to be amended. She knew exactly what she was getting into right from the start. She could have told him to go fuck himself six ways from Sunday. Did she? No. She didn't sign right off the bat. But she did have all the details laid out before her. Imagine that. Informed consent.

4.  He whips her until she cries. Again, I present to you the lifestyle you don't seem to comprehend. Sometimes a sub cries. It doesn't mean they don't like it. Some subs want to cry. They want to release the inner demons that are trapped inside them and this is a viable way to do it for them. The safeword is created to prevent a scene from going too far. It stops the pain, the humiliation, the too-intense moment immediately. Some are looking for that intensity, while some are looking to just get to that point right before the safeword becomes necessary. It's a delicate balance. One to be determined between the Dom and the Sub, but ultimately decided upon by the...you guessed it, the SUB. She was always in control, much to your uninformed and ignorant dismay.

5.  BDSM is all about violence. This is Domestic Violence, dammit. What the fuck are you even talking about? Nothing could be further from the truth. It does not come from a desire to hurt someone. Not in that way. DV is a horrific thing and one I don't wish on my worst enemy. I wish she gets far worse. Back to the topic. Domestic violence and BDSM share one thing in common and I think that is what confuses the fuck out of you tiny-brained fucktards. They both come from a place of control. DV is seeking it. BDSM is sharing it. Yes, I said sharing. The sub wants to relinquish control, so he/she passes it over, willingly, to the dom. In cases of DV, the abuser wants control and attempts to usurp it from the abused by any means necessary. Without prior consent and without anyone's pleasure in mind. The abuser doesn't even get pleasure out of doing what he/she does. The BDSM scene is based on mutual pleasure, whether you see it or not. They both get something out of it. Something positive. I can sense your shock. Poor Pollyanna.

6. I don't want this to be what my 13 year old perceives to be a healthy relationship. I want her to respect herself and not allow a boy to hurt her. Well, DUH. No one wants their daughter abused. But this isn't what we are talking about. That is not what the trilogy is about. It's about an erotic fantasy, played out by the author. It's not even accurate so far as the BDSM world is concerned. What we are looking at is the darker side of sexual fetishism. We aren't peering into the lives of the abused, nor are we saying that this is the standard by which our very young daughters should base their future relationships. Furthermore, allow me to pose a question of you. Why the fuck are you taking your 13 year old daughter to this movie? It is R rated, so she can't get in on her own. Do you always watch soft porn with your kids? And you are criticizing the movie? Seriously? This shouldn't affect younger children in any way. And if you are completely honest with your spawn, they will already know what is healthy in a relationship and what isn't. They will also have the good sense and testicular fortitude to know what they like and what they don't like and be able to speak their mind to those points when needed. Do your job and let Hollywood do its job, which is to entertain me.

All this ignorant righteous indignation has given me a fucking headache. You people drive me absolutely insane with your chest pounding and soapbox preaching about what's right and wrong. Why don't you worry about what goes on in your own backyard and leave the fun stuff to me? Clearly you can't handle anything beyond your very sterile and vanilla life. And, hey, to each his/her own. I'm not the one standing on the street corner yelling about your insistence on missionary with the lights off on alternate Tuesdays. If you think for one minute you are going to stop the movie from being played in every theatre from here to Timbuktu, you are as crazy and stupid as I've imagined you to be. While you're busy protesting the movie, have a peek in the back of your husband's sock drawer. I'll bet his porn collection will send you spinning on your axis. Everyone has deep, dark secrets...fantasies that only exist in their minds. Check out the sock drawer if you think I'm wrong. I'm never wrong. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Birthday Musings of a Madwoman

Today we commemorate the event of my birth. And what a fucking day that was, my friends. Born during a typical NY snow, first thing in the morning, this kid came out with strawberry blonde hair and a ferocious set of lungs! Ready, willing, and able to join the ranks of Queens residents, I started my life in Maspeth, NY. Back in 1971, people actually gave a shit about birthdays. Now, I am not saying they don't today, but come on. A Facebook post is not an actual birthday card. It took you all of six seconds, maybe, to do. No thought, no effort. Yet, today, in 2015, it is deemed efficient, effective, and acceptable. I call BULLSHIT. What happened to going down to your local Hallmark store and perusing the cards, picking them up, reading, laughing to yourself, being unable to decide, and perhaps walking away with at least two? Then you'd race home to write them out, laughing again at your fine selection. The next step is one most people don't do anymore. You walked to the mailbox to slip those babies in to be delivered to the birthday person. What a feeling of satisfaction. Not so today. As of today, I've received one card. ONE! Really? I send them to everyone. WTF?! Am I the last of a dying breed? If you base your answer on my mailbox, then, yes I am.

Personally, I feel that birthdays are the best days of the year and should be celebrated as such. Marking the day we came into this crazy world, kicking and screaming, what better way to acknowledge it but to have a party, with cake and candles? Yet, people are letting the day slip by without so much as a hoot and a holler. Why? Someone loved you enough to endure hours of labor and the pain of childbirth, the least you can do is make a big deal out of it. Really, what you should be doing is saying thank you to the woman who went through all that so that you could be here today, acting like an asshole and ignoring the importance of the day. Maybe that's what birthdays should be. Recognition for those who raised you, those you turned you into the person you've become. They are the ones who deserve the card, the cake, the gifts...the fanfare. I'm sure you don't agree with me. Now, you want the cards, the celebratory nonsense. It's sounding very appealing now that I've attempted to take it away from you. What an asshat.

Let's continue along the lines of what your birthday means. Mine is a very special day for me. I have always looked forward to it with great anticipation, like a small child. May sound silly to you, but it's my day, and gawdeffindammit, I love it oh so much. Getting older is not always a bad thing, and to me it means I've survived another year. I'm still here...all you haters can suck it. Feels good! I look forward with joy to being one of the Golden Girls. I want to be that old lady, the one who wears the wild animal prints, has purple hair, and still throws up the rock sign when AC/DC comes on. And bitches, I will. So, with each year that passes, I feel like my birthday gets better and even more exciting. I want to be a snow bird. I want to go to Florida and sun worship, play shuffle board, and gossip with my friends. Racing to collect on those Early Bird specials just because I can. Am I the only one? My daughter fights against it, saying she never wants to get old. At 19, I can see feeling that way. The immortality of youth. I do remember that. But now, at 44, I want to see what comes next.

Let's be clear, I can still remember my Sweet 16 with fond memories. Being young was fantastic for me. I had a great life, for the most part, leaving out the stuff and nonsense that needs not be discussed on my special day. But, can we be real? You're young once. And with good reason. Growing up doesn't necessarily suck as much as most people would lead you to believe. Yes, there are bills, responsibilities, and loads and loads of laundry. However, there is an amazing amount of freedom. Endless freedom, to say and do whatever you want. Now, I'm sure you'll remind me that we do have rules and bosses and spouses to answer to...and you'd be right, for the most part. Tell, me...who is gonna stop me from coming home from work and having a glass of wine? Who will take my car keys and prevent me from going to Ulta and spending way more than is ever necessary in one shopping trip? Who among you has the balls to tell me not to eat that giant spoonful of peanut butter right out of the jar? Didn't think so. Beyond the basic adult list of "musts" like work, pay for shit, and clean up after yourself, there lies the entire world at your fingertips. How fucking great is that? Saturday comes along, I can hop in my car, throw the top down, and head wherever I'd like. Blasting the music I want to hear, singing at the top of my lungs, destination unknown. I don't have to ask for permission, keep a curfew, or call when I get there. Who has it better?

So, why don't we give birthdays the recognition they deserve. Pick up your phone and call someone having a birthday. Even a text is more personal than posting it on Facebook for everyone to see. Not that I don't enjoy seeing my timeline fill up with birthday wishes, but boy would I love to see my phone light up or my mailbox have cards bursting out of it. I don't think I'm asking for much. No one's life is so busy that they can't take out a minute or two to wish someone they supposedly care about a happy birthday. I know you would like to think your life is jam packed to the gills and you don't have a minute to breathe much less time to text me today. But, remember this. I would and will at the very least text you. Hell, you may even get a card from me. Do you deserve it knowing how you act on my birthday? Are you friggin kidding me right now???