Going through it while you have a looming deadline and there's a new dog in the house, causing such insane jealousy amongst your parrots that one of them jumps onto your shoulder and bites clear through the cartilage in your left ear.
Good times, my friends, good times.
So what am I going to be thankful for this Thanksgiving? That I can spend it alone, in cheap sweatpants, with greasy hair and a bad attitude about the future.
Seriously, until the Black Cohosh kicks in, I am not fit for human company. And I don't think it's going to kick in anytime soon. You know why? Because much as I've tried to live organically all my life and use natural remedies, I think there are some conditions that require hard-core pharmaceuticals. Menopause is turning out to be one of them.
If I have to spend one more night repeatedly throwing off my down quilt and then pulling it back on, I'm going to cancel my new membership at Match-dot-com. Because what's the fucking point? There's nothing sexy about a sweaty person with belly fat and severe mood swings.
I was buying a camera at Wal-Mart today, along with a few other items, including a bottle of wine that I could swill down while the new camera battery was charging. And we all know that Wal-Mart is the place to go for fine wines. The 16-year-old clerk asked for my ID because I was purchasing alcohol. Not in an "I have to confirm you're over 21" way, but in an "I'm sorry I have to ask for ID from someone who's clearly seen better days" way.
I pointed out that since I was having a hot flash at that exact moment, the odds were fairly good that I was old enough to buy wine. And that if he didn't ring me up faster, he was in physical danger.
My 81-year-old mother is going to have a wonderful Thanksgiving at her second home in Florida (isn't it nice that while some people in the world live in shacks made of tin and cardboard, others of us can have two houses -- it's enough to make you become a Republican). She'll be surrounded by friends and family. Both. Literally. She has a lot of friends everywhere she goes and her first-born child, her beloved son, will be flying down to see her, along with his pretty wife, who is most likely not going through menopause.
(Remind me to tell you the hilarious story about the time my mother was in the hospital and I called to check on her, and the nurse handed her the phone, and I heard my mother say, "It's my son!" Oh, wait. I forgot. That story sucks balls.)
When my mother -- who, in her defense, is not a Republican -- asked what I'd be doing for Thanksgiving, I snarled, "Eating a TV dinner while I sit on my couch, alone."
And you know what? I was right! So at least I have that going for me. And isn't "being right" always something for which to be thankful? Isn't it? WELL? Isn't it? Before you answer, remember that I'm homicidal right now due to the menopause.
And believe me, no one's dog can do what that dog does. He's cornered the market on professional adorability. He's even cute when his ears are pinned back and he's snarling at me for trying to pull him onto my lap by his neck rolls.
But the fact is, the dog "technically" belongs to my selfish 81-year-old mother who lives next door. That old she-bat had the nerve to take the dog with her earlier this week when she headed to Florida for the winter.
I kept telling her, "Why do you need a guard dog? Florida is perfectly safe! The high transient population means people have to go the extra mile to make new friends. Even people on the local channel that broadcasts the names and addresses of recently released sex offenders. In fact, especially those people, because they're on parole so they're on their most sterling behavior! And anyway, dogs hate romping on the beach."
(Remind me to tell you the hilarious story about how the dog herded a terrified elderly man wearing socks and tennis sneakers into the ocean last winter.)
She completely ignored me, and got into her crappy Nissan without a backwards glance to make the three-day drive to Florida. Along with MY dog. So like the impetuous, brain-damaged idiot I am, I went to the pound and adopted a dog. Today. Really. I did. That's the crashing sound you hear out in the woods while I sit on the screened porch sucking down a martini and trying to get over the panic attack that ensued the minute I signed the papers.
I'm going to have this dog for the rest of her life! Or for the rest of mine, at the rate I'm going. And I don't even know if we like each other yet.
For one thing, I'm fairly certain she's going to kill me in my sleep tonight. Look at her picture and see if you don't agree. She was moving when I snapped this, so you can't see the "killer" look in her eyes, but I did, the second I got her home. Forgive me for the fact that the picture isn't rotated, but I'm a computer retard. That doesn't mean I don't know a throat-ripper when I see one.
After she bites into my jugular, she'll probably go for my parrots. I actually met her yesterday, and decided to go back to the shelter today - with one of my parrots - to see if she has that instinct some dogs have to bite off the heads of creatures smaller and more delicious than themselves. She couldn't have cared less about the bird, but I realize now, she was totally faking it.
You know how I know? Because she's still not interested in the parrots. That's the hallmark of a true Nazi sneak. She's just tapping her little paw, waiting for her moment.
My plan was to walk her on a leash for the first week that I had her, so she could get acclimated to the property. Which means that once we got home, she was on the leash for about five minutes at the start of our hike. Then I let her off and we tromped through the woods for about 45 minutes. That big faker acted like she hadn't spent the last three weeks in a tiny, indoor, concrete kennel. You should have seen her, running back and forth, wagging her tail in a really obnoxious, phony manner. Also, she stayed with me, and came when I called, so I can see she's going to need a lot of re-training. And she doesn't bark, so I'll have to get a shock collar in case she changes her mind.
I'll let you know how things work out, but it's not looking good.
One year for Christmas, I gave him a truly retarded gift: one of those cheap devices that you can use to record your thoughts and "To Do" lists. It had a lot of drawbacks, including the fact that it could only capture about eleven seconds worth of opining. Not to mention that you could record on it once. The minute you pressed the "record" button again, it erased everything you'd recorded before that. Which sort of eliminated its usefulness as a list keeper. Or as a keeper of anything, for that matter.
He pointed all this out, because he knew I'd appreciate the inherent cheapness of the gadget. Which I did.
In my defense, when I bought it those fifteen or so years ago, the technology seemed "catchy." But keep in mind that I just recently figured out you can get free internet pornography instead of paying $13.99 for "Dirty Co-Eds Get Jizzy With It" on cable, and then being stuck with a plot line that's a real turn-off.
The truth was, I'd put off my shopping to the final minute. I was making my usual desperate, shoddy, half-assed purchasing decisions. Brothers know when you do that.
When I gifted him with the useless instrument, he was living in a New Jersey suburb with a lot of other well-to-do yuppies. He took the bus into Manhattan every morning. It was a typical suburb-to-city commute: jam-packed and deathly silent.
He told me that he happily imagined the best thing he could do with that handheld recorder would be to get on his bus full of quiet, rich commuters paging delicately through their New York Times and click it on. Then loudly record into it:
"Remember to wipe ass."
And then click it off.
I love my brother. I still think of him saying that and laugh.
I had my face shoved into it more than once on the playground. And it is delicious! The chewy texture alone brings back memories that help me come down from artificial highs -- like the ones I experience after I make new friends as an adult or succeed in some small way, perhaps by redeeming a coupon or answering a telephone survey.
When life threatens to overtake me with its bounty, I simply go outside and scoop up a handful of sedimentary soil and let it run through my gnarled, age-speckled hands.
"Now I remember," I always think. And then I come up with new exciting uses for it, besides just smelling that earthy aroma.
'Wouldn't it be fun to put some in the gas tank of Hillary Sparlowe, the popular girl who made my life miserable in high school? Now that she has infant grandchildren, having her engine go out would really be inconvenient!'
'What about replacing the mayonnaise with sedimentary soil in the sandwich of Dwayne, that pesky mailman?'
Better yet: 'What if I could find a way to make formerly combustible motors run on sedimentary soil? Surely I'd win the Nobel Peace Prize then!' I already have my clothes picked out for the award ceremony.
And here's something you might not have known. Sediments are commonly subdivided into three major groups—mechanical, chemical, and organic.
That's fascinat--
Okay. I admit it. I don't know shit about sedimentary soil. My 81-year-old fucking mother does, because in addition to being an accomplished artist, she's taken actual classes on geology and don't you forget it, you big dope. And believe me, if you've ever heard an 81-year-old natter on about "striations" and "petrology," you'll WANT to forget it but you won't be able to once you fall asleep and the nightmares begin.
I just liked the idea of "sedimentary soil" after Owsla proposed it as a blog topic. And forgive me if I was relieved to not have to think that hard after my second martini of the evening on a Monday night. Granted, daylight savings time makes me seem like more of a lush than I am since I start drinking at 4 p.m. now. Sue me, I felt the urge to write a blog. And there was a ready made topic that called my name: Dirt.
That's why I asked other people to come up with blog topics for me. I am hoarding them like Scrooge with his gold, because I have at least a year's worth under my belt now, not counting Noelle's grandmother's candy dish, since that one is still swimming around in my head like a deadly shark just waiting to crash through my skull with its Venetian-glass teeth. You can't count that as "being under one's belt."
I'm still grateful for "sedimentary soil" as a topic. It was wildly freeing. The fact that I want to use it to poison engines and sandwiches could probably be held against me in a court of law if these scenarios manifest themselves. But they won't. Because I'm so lazy that the closest I'll get to sedimentary soil mischievousness is being buried in it.
And I plan to get cremated.
(I just had a horrible thought. What if my life comes down to someone having to read one of my old blogs on FOD to find out how to dispose of my remains? I changed my mind about cremation, okay? Just dig a hole on my land, wrap me in a sheet, and dump me in. Please make sure I'm dead first, too. Thanks.)
They're all starting to sound the same.
They all feature ME, standing on a soapbox, shouting indignantly about my 81-year-old mother, slurring a few soppy words about how much I love FOD, and then collapsing into a puddle of my own vomit.
I've been using FOD as a confessional, and last time I checked, there weren't any priests in here. Using their real names.
So I'd really appreciate it if you could suggest a blog topic. Something that would take me outside of the little poison bubble where I dwell, all hunched over, rubbing my hands together, and snickering out the side of my face that still has muscle memory.
Just jot a line or two about something you'd like to read in one of my blogs. Anything. Really. Even a topic you pondered for one of your own blogs and then discarded as stupid and tasteless. Especially a topic like that, because "stupid and tasteless" is my comfort zone.
Think of it like this. I'll still be writing a blog that inevitably ends up degenerating into a discussion about pornography and filtered cigarettes, but at least it will start out in a hopeful manner, with the topic of your choice.
It would be like guidance from a worried friend. At a blog intervention. And if there's no such thing as a blog intervention, then Fox TV should invent one.
I thank anyone who participates, in advance.
Seriously.
Could I just be quiet for five minutes?
Why do I feel I have to spill my "revelations" on the goddamn internet? It would be sad if it wasn't so funny!
Come to think of it ... it WASN'T so funny.
Note to self: Find the "magic spot" between sober and shit-faced. Remember your old boyfriend? Ted? HE found the magic spot and he was a mechanic at Sear's. Remember how much you liked it when he found the magic spot with his oily, dirty hands? So why can't you?
I'm looking for it. And meanwhile, this bumps the "revelations" about FOD users out of the top spot on my page of sordid, perimenopausal blogs.
P.S. I never had a boyfriend named Ted. That was totally made up.
