Dust bunnies and other diversions

A funny thing happened this morning while doing my usual procrastination routine.

Come on. You know what I’m talking about.

Don’t even try to pretend you don’t have one.

Mine goes something like this:

• Call out to sleepy teenage son to get up from the warm confines of his bed from confines of mine -20 min
• Flip between CNN, ABC & NBC trying to find something truly news worthy -30 min
• Make tea. Sip tea while struggling to have the Special K with flax seed and soy milk instead of leftover mashed potatoes and gravy for breakfast -20min
• Eat mashed potatoes and gravy with big smile on face -5min
• Boot up computer and check e-mails -10min
• Remember iPod needs charging, play in iTunes -45min
• Check statcounter site for blog stats –WHAT!!!!


Imagine my surprise when this showed up amoung the usual suspects.



When they usually look like this.



Everyone who visits my blog leaves a footprint that StatCounter records.

For those who read blogs but don’t have a blog, that’s so we can get an idea of where are readers are coming from, how often they read our blog etc.

Everyone leaves a footprint except for that guy.

Who has the power and need to not leave footprints?

Santa? He has to see if I’ve been naughty or nice after all.

FBI?

Does the goddess have a computer? Surely she does.

CIA?

Bill Gates? Found out I recently slipped off the PC train?

Fashion Police?

Steve Jobs? Found out I recently jumped on the Mac/Apple train?

Or did someone sitting in an office named after a geometrical shape going through their own procrastination routine this morning stumble across my blog and much to their dismay cry out in frustration;

“Gab dang it! There is not one picture of, men with paws, anywhere on this confounded page!”

• Writing this blog entry -10min

Red Sox 1 game down behind the Yankees~~(Repost)

The Hubster and I went to the new Ikea down in Stoughton, MA yesterday. I am still recovering. Don’t worry there will so be a post about this, but until then, please enjoy this repost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s come down to this---The Pre-Game Show

Whether you’re talking; World Series, Super Bowl, World Cup, whatever- why can’t they just let the game play out without all the hype?

It’s analyzed and dissected for weeks on end.

Blah blah. Bladdee, dah.

Makes one long for small talk about the weather, religion even bloody politics.

Of course there is always a root cause for such things.

The Men were clever about this one really.

Sports teams and events that change with the seasons and they have an on-going, year after year big distraction from actual feelings and relationships.

Sorry love. No time to sort that one out, only 6 weeks before play-offs, wild card picks and such. Can I get back to you on that intimacy thingy in about 3 months?

So now tell me that a man didn’t dream up this whole Perimenopause business.

Perimeno what!

Perimenopause or menopause transition is the stage of a woman's reproductive life that begins several years before menopause.

As if we needed one more hormonal curse.

Maybe I am just bloody cranky.

Treatments range from low dose birth control pills to anti-depressants.

Goody.

So I’ll be blissfully unaware when they start shoving me full of hormone replacement therapies when actual menopause occurs.

How did our grandmothers survive?

The same way their grand mothers did and theirs before that.

A shot of whiskey, a little sherry…………….

And if grandpa had to take a hit to the back of the head every once in a while for the team; well, we were all the better for it.

How bout them Red Sox?

Thanks or something like it

I love Thanksgiving Day. But what’s not to like about a day that revolves around stuffing yourself full of some of the world’s greatest comfort foods?

My Mom was not the greatest cook and by that I mean she had a limited pool from which she pulled.

What she did better than all the rest was Sunday dinners.

I lived for those Sunday dinners.

They always consisted of a roast something. Beef, chicken, or pork roast, mashed potatoes, gravy and a couple of veggie side dishes.

Thanksgiving was the ultimate Sunday dinner. Forget that it was on a Thursday. Added to the usual suspects served; stuffing, rolls, cranberry sauce, fruit cocktail and about 25 extended family members.

It took me years to perfect my Mother’s stuffing, gravy and mashed potaoes. I have done her proud. My oldest Brother will vouch for that and he’s no easy critic.

My 16 year old has dubbed me the Thanksgiving Queen.

I prefer Goddess or Diva but I’ll take it.

My Mom has been dead for nearly 10 years now and today is one of the days it hits me.

Hard.

One of my strongest memories of my Mom and Thanksgiving has nothing to do with our meal.

I come from a family that didn’t have much. We got by and when you’re very young you don’t really have a clue.

One year when we were still living in Albany my Mom found out about a family at church that was in a bad way. I don’t know what happened but they were struggling to make it day to day.

While we were doing the big turkey day shop I failed to notice that she bought more than usual.

Hey. I was 6 and she was cooking for 30 people.

When we got home I started to notice.

Some things weren’t being put in the pantry or fridge. Some things were being packed in a large cardboard box. All the fixings for a complete second turkey dinner.

That box and I were tucked back into the car and we drove to a street I didn’t know.

I asked endless questions and she shushed me and said it was just something to make little girls ask questions and I was told I had to zip my lips when we got out of the car till we got back in.

Hey. It was the 60’s and still about being seen and not heard.

Mom unloaded me and that box and then she somehow managed to carry that heavy box around the corner and up to an apartment duplex I had never been to before.

Mom paused instructing me again to be completely silent and to walk on tippy toes. Followed by a look that told me to do now, ask questions later.

We crept inside and Mom placed the box outside the downstairs apartment’s door and we crept back outside to the street and back around the corner.

I started to ask what we had just done but Mom wasn’t done yet. She spoke with an older man who was on his way around the corner we just came from.

The older man agreed to go knock on the door where we left the food promising not to describe us to the folks inside.

I finally got my questions answered years later. That family was too prideful to take donations from the church and my Mother couldn’t stand the thought of them not having a proper Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m sure it cut into my father’s Pabst Blue Ribbon budget for a few weeks.

So as I sat here typing this memory while The Hubster and son still sleep and the snow piles gently up, I know why on Tuesday while I finished shopping for my family’s feast that I bought two extra turkeys and got extra cash out at the register.

My Mother’s legacy goes beyond the gravy, mashed and stuffing to die for.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Changes are a foot, or at least a yard anyways

When my good friend Tanisha helped inject some style into my blog she started a blogalanche.

That photo she posted from the movie, Bridget Jones, was just the beginning.

After a back breaking 4 hours of posing, and one bottle of champagne, for the infinitely , okay-mostly, patient Hubster, we have the recreated photo pose starring me.

That led to what is in the works at the moment soon to be revealed here at this very site.

Can you hardly stand it or what?

Oh the anticipation is killing you. You just don't know it.

OOoooo, and only 3 more days till Thanksgiving!

Feel free to drop by, I cook enough for an army regardless.

Silicone, it’s not just for implants anymore

It’s also what’s for dinner.

Or at least it’s playing a big part in my kitchen as well as my bath cabinets these days.

It’s an uber substance that knows no boundaries.

I line my sheet pans with it, scrape my bowls, grab my pots, why I even have a spoonula made out of it!

I have this stuff in a tube that if I spread it on my face before applying my make-up I look 10 years younger.

Combine that with the Oil of Olay lotion and I’m practically 12 again.

And I fit right in with all the other 12 year olds that have boobies.

What are we putting in those infant vitamin drops that allow girls to grow boobies by age 11?

The poster child for late blooming, I was 40 before I had boobies.

Silicone is the new polyester.

Micro-fiber if you must show my age.

Micro-fibers took the 90’s by storm. It was new and revolutionary!

I read the label.

It was polyester.

Some genius found a new way to twist those threads and get us to love polyester and wrap our lives in it.

It’s in our closets, on our sofas and beds. It’s racing down the slopes, swaddling our babies and beneath our sleeping pets.

Back in the 70’s polyester was still the poor cousin of the textile world.

I remember a brief conversation with my mother in the kitchen of Woodbridge Ave.

I was 14. It was 1975.

“So mom, at what age will I suddenly get an urge to wear only itchy, elastic waist, polyester pants in a rainbow range of pastel colours?”

“You little bitch!”

Alrighty then.

I held out as long as I could when the new polyester showed up.

It was over the minute my hand touched a bit of micro fleece.

Like butter.

From that moment on, Malden Mills’ stock rose by 75%.

Back in 1975 I was sure of two things.

I hated polyester and I knew my flat-chested self would love her some silicone.

Flash forward to the new millennium.

My mid-life boobies look fab encased in my raspberry micro fleece turtleneck.

Good things come to those who wait for the redesign.

To Diva or not to Diva-------Hell Yes Diva!

What exactly is a Diva?

Merriam-Werster online defines it as:

Main Entry: di·va Pronunciation: 'dE-v&Function: nounInflected Form(s): plural divas or di·ve /-(")vA/Etymology: Italian, literally, goddess, from Latin, feminine of divus divine, god -- more at DEITY: PRIMA DONNA 1

I would also post Oxford’s definition except that they have a site that is subscription only.........
Oxford --For an annual rate of $295, you'll have full-unrestricted access to the OED Online - including quarterly updates! Love the OED, but can't commit to a full year subscription? You can also enjoy access to the OED Online on a monthly basis. For a low monthly rate of US$29.95, this is great value with no commitment.

I would post from my personal Oxford Dictionary but I haven’t yet allowed myself the luxury of spending the bazillion dollars on that either.

Besides, then I wouldn’t have had the cash equity to buy that Olive Topiary thingy now would I.

I don’t know about you but I’m digging the; literally, goddess, part and the deity.

The reference to prima donna is clearly when some unfortunate soul ran into a diva while she was PMSing.

That was their bad.

So we’ll discount that.

I am sure that somewhere in my blonde little head I have the term for such mistaken research from high school chemistry----I’ll keep you posted on that.

Clearly all females are born divas, we just then have to learn to own it as we grow.

This thankfully happens sooner these days.

I say that because I was born on the cusp of the feminist movement.

I was too young to be bothered by the surge because I didn’t yet own a bra to burn and was much too busy begging Ken to pay more attention to Barbie.

Which he did---but only after she had that bitchin pink corvette.

Of course we have to be careful, there is a right way and a wrong way to be a diva.

I have seen some frighteningly young divas out there abusing their powers.

We’re talking 4 year olds people.

Thankfully there are places divas and divas in training can go for advice and to learn how to use their powers for good.

One of them that you should check out and return to often is;



I exercised my diva rights this morning.

I had apple pie for breakfast.

I applied the diva law of:

If you baked the damn pie you can eat the damn pie for breakfast!

As a fallen diva that has now risen like a phoenix up out of the ashes back to her throne says;

“It’s a good thing.”

Blogs By Women Bloggers

**join the blogroll

Shopping, Rainy days and Tuesdays

I am nothing if not unpredictable in my predictability.

Stop hurting your brain and just read on.

I leap towards my desk every morning with lofty aspirations of all the work I will get done.

Metaphors that have not yet been ridden within an inch of their life will leap from my typing fingers of fire.

All three of them.

Fingers, not metaphors.

Unbridled creativity will burst through my usual productivity glass ceiling of 20 minutes.

YES!

In my fantasy I work tirelessly for at least 45 minutes.

Then I check my e-mails.

OOOooo, sale alert.

It’s saying something when most of your holiday greeting cards are from merchants thanking you for being such a good customer.

Unable to resist I click into the link just to have a little looky loo.

Harmless browsing, that’s all.

Next thing you know, I am trying to gage if I should print the order confirmation page or will the order confirmation e-mail arrive as promised?

Never mind that I can always log into my account and retrieve the order information.

The need for tangible proof of purchase is too strong and as I hit print, up pops the notice of said confirmation e-mails arrival.

Foiled again.

Um. So, yeah. I bought things.

IMPORTANT things.

Like a miniature silk Lemon tree.

An Olive Topiary

2- 2’x7’7” runner rugs

And a French Country Bench

Hey! French Country is the new Scottish Hunter’s Den. Where have you been?

The rugs are v important as they will run down each side of the Hubster’s and my marital bed. I of course will use it to wipe any little bits off my feet thereby keeping the sheets bits free while he of course will not.

The lemon tree will be placed on my desk so that I can pretend to be in my posh Hollywood Hills bungalow this winter while trying to forget that I am actually freezing my Jlo like assets off up in this frozen wasteland called New Hampshire.

The Olive Topiary--------- okay you got me there, but it’s cute dammit!

Cute is not to be ignored or under appreciated.

No sir, cute is a force to be reckoned with.

Just ask the Hubster.

Another day, another template

Getting the text sorted meant another new template.

The other one was causing the text flumuxing.

Do not ask me to explain---- my dark roots ache just thinking about it.

Thanks again to my friend down in Texas!

Extreme make over, bloggy style

So how do you like me now?

The blog you silly gooses. Haven’t you noticed the redo?

Merci to my new friend in Texas, (go read her pronto!), who worked tirelessly this weekend giving my blog a face.

I had been busy procrastinating on the blog identity project because my laptop is dying and I am now just days away from my Apple PowerBook fantasy becoming reality.

Besides, I told my lazy arse self, the return visitors are coming back for the writing, not because it’s pretty.

Well now my rabid fans can enjoy the awesomeness of my writing in all its new gorgeousness.

Both of you.

Of course now I have to work on getting my pic up where that empty space is over to the left. I have the concept in my head just waiting for the Hubster to help me take the conception to reality.

BTW, he adores having the Hubster nick. He’s taking to it like it makes him some kind super hero.

I refuse to sew the costume.

And what is up with the folks over at, http://www.blogrolling.com?

My new friend in Texas, tried to get me set up on the blog rolling train because my little blonde head was busy elsewhere and I am now up to my ears in WTF?

Texas, set me up with an account and we awaited a verification e mail.

Two days and nothing.

So I go in this morning bright and early and set up a new account under my gmail addy and………….. nothing.

While staring at my gmail inbox while periodically checking the empty spam folder just in case was good for 3 ½ hours of not posting a new blog entry, by hour number four I was starting to get well and truly pissed.

Off, not lit.

I am now sensing a conspiracy.

It's like they have some universal block on me.

"No no no! We cannot have that one blogrolling. The force is too strong with her. She will become much too successful, much too soon, catapulting into super stardom with the likes of Marion Keyes, Helen Fielding, Jane Green and that Sophia woman! No, the world is not yet prepared for that."

Oh wait, that's just my silly lil mind going off on one of its tangents again.

Hard to tell lately.

"Back to reality, oh there goes gravity..........."

Opps, a brief Eminem moment, we now return you to my regularly scheduled post.

It’s becoming like a damn country club----- let me in damn it!

Do I need a couple of sponsors?

Any volunteers?

I’ll be good, I promise.

And for the love of chocolate, can anyone tell me why those bloody Euro symbols are popping up in my text!

The Artist formally known as Princess

The whole Big Apple adventure was muddling up my little mind so I’m splitting it up into two blogs. This first will be about the Princess’ becoming the next “it” girl of said Apple.

I bounce out of bed bright and early on Sunday to pack and become a bundle of nerves about the trip into the city. It’s not everyday that my car becomes a super model.

Eventually, I successfully drag the hubster out of bed and leave early enough so we can stop and do breakfast and try to normalize me.

Emphasis on try.

We pull into at a service area on the way and are surrounded by a green and white army of babbling Jets fans on their way into the game.

So much for normalizing.

I do however take a moment to appreciate the hubster’s Englishness and complete lack of interest in American sports.

We reach the island with what would’ve been more than enough time---me following hubster in his truck.

Said truck is a beast. F-150, extended cab and extended bed. The Princess could probably fit in the pick-up’s bed.

When we suddenly hit what could be confused for a Friday evening’s commuter traffic and maniacs are assaulting me on all sides, I try to will the Princess to hop into the truck.

Ummm, no one bothered to tell us about the bloody marathon.

Apparently people in advertising don’t care about such things.

We slowly work our way over to a parallel street and fly down the island, movie style, with all the lights changing to green as we reach them for about 30 blocks surrounded by nothing but yellow taxis.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

We arrive at Chelsea Piers and find Studio 59 @ Pier 59. Imagine that.

I drive The Princess into their freight elevator.

Why?

Because they looked at me with that, “ We can drive her if you’re a scardy girl”, way that I saw as a challenge.

Backing her out of the elevator and maneuvering her into her set space with little to no room to work in takes a couple of minutes but I get the job done.

Hurrah! I manage to save face for blonde, women drivers the world over for one more day.

I just might make it into the Blonde’s Hall of Fame yet!

I get out and do the formal introductions with *J* and tell him it is his job to introduce The Princess to everyone tomorrow and make her feel at home.

He looks at me nervously and shakes his head in the appropriate direction.

Not wanting to bother with the camera right then, I ask if I’ll be able to take a pic of her there in the studio tomorrow---he says that’s iffy but if it makes me feel any better, that Princess will be used in the client’s big spring campaign and that she will be on a billboard in Times Square.

WHOO HOOO---- a 6 1/2 story Princess in Times Square.

I smack *J* in the shoulder and say, “You are so lying to me!”

After picking himself up off the floor, he assures me he is not.

We say good-bye and leave them to get her lighting sorted.

I anxiously wait until we are a half block away from the studio before whooping with joy.

I feel all Mary Tyler Moore-ish except;

This is not Minneapolis

I am not single

I have no hat to throw as I don’t do hats

The Big Apple will have to settle for my whooping spin and twirl.

**This is where it got all messy for me----the part now that is hubster’s and my adventure, which is diff from The Princess’ so we do a Hollywood---

Fade to Black

And cut to the next morning.

I awaken, alive and alone in my hotel room.

(Alone? See, you’re going to have to read Big Apple Blog #2---muuuaaaaa ha haaaa!)


In the light of day, being in a hotel alone goes from being scary to lovely.

I take a leisurely shower, eat my fruit and yogurt thingy and watch the morning news.

All the while pretending that I am an independent, single woman in my chic NY flat and not a married woman alone in a rather odd hotel room in Chelsea that is a cross between a closet and a hallway where the only window looks out onto 4 other outside walls of the hotel and room windows.

Before the novelty wears thin *J* rings on my mobile.

“Your good to head over anytime we should have you out of here before noon.”

I repack all my bags thinking I can eliminate one somehow but no such luck.

I head down to check out saddled down with;

My laptop case

My big purple overnight bag

My big lime green tote bag

My big bag of goodies from Fishs Eddy

And my purse

Which is why I cannot walk the 4 blocks to the studio and have to catch a cab.

And don’t you know that I have to cross over to the other side of the street outside the hotel because I need to head that way after getting a cab.

And you’ve already guessed that the other side of the street is nowhere near as friendly as the side with the hotel.

“Show no fear---show no fear….”

Luckily it only took 3 minutes before an available taxi drove up.

I schlep all my bags up to the second floor studio looking like some well-dressed hobo.

Step into the studio space and wow.

All the other sets have been set up and there is about a million people all running about.

I am taken aback for a moment.

I am use to film sets. They are busy but in a quieter way.

This is completely diff. And yet very much the same.

There’s craft services set up, wardrobe, make-up and hair.

Lighting and grip guys hulking about.

Lots of PA’s scurrying everywhere.

And lounging on any available soft spots---not actors, but models.

If not for the loud music and such----very much the same.

I find a small patch of couch and settle in after stowing my stuff in a corner.

A girl walks up and inquires---“I belong to the car”, I say.

“Oh lovely----have some food please.”

All the ad folks at the long table in front of the craft services table all look up from their Apple PowerBooks and cell phones and say, “Yes, please have some food.”

Weird.

I am now scared to eat the food and instead wander over to peek at Princess.

She is vogueing it up for the photog and I leave her to it.

As I walk away, I run into *J*---“Great, should be done within the hour, she’s a trooper. Oh and have some food.”

Again with the food.

Maybe they should invite some of the homeless people up that were wandering about in the road having intense conversations with the pigeons.

Apparently whose territory the piers are was in question.

A grip comes up to me and says, “You must be Princess’ owner, hi.”

A PA walks over, “I just love VW’s, and it’s all I’ve ever had. I currently drive a Jetta. The Princess is adorable.”

I want to sit down, as I do so the girl at the end of the table looks up from her laptop and introduces herself as Catherine.

I stand back up to shake her hand and notice the ad-copy concept next to her computer. “I’m Dawn. That’s my car.”

I sit down, pull out my notepad and start taking notes to settle myself.

The only thing scarier than too thin female models in person is a too thin male model.

Their heads are too big for their little bodies. I swear I could’ve wrapped my hands around this one guy's hips and my fingers and thumbs could’ve touched.

They are also much bitchier than the girls and way more self absorbed.

One guy bends over in front of me and I am treated to the view of the tattoo across his hips right above his tiny butt. It’s those 3 monkeys—hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

Above his butt-----hmmmmmmmmmmm.

I’d give my soul to be surrounded by narcissistic actors right now. They at least pretend to be interested in you in case you or someone you know can further their career.

I am a stranger in a strange land.

Right before I go head long into a full blown panic attack…..

“Hi, I’m *D*, the photographer. That’s your car?”

“Yes.”

“She’s been wonderful, a real star. What’s her name again?”

“Princess.”

“Of course!”

I never did get to take my photo.

The biggest head of all the big heads doesn’t allow any pics of his sets.

Ever.

Okay, I get that.

However.

Her set consisted of nothing but white backdrops and lighting.

The models are no longer in the car.

The rest of the stuff will be digitally put around her.

The end result will be a shot of her head on, close up with a guy driving and a girl passenger going through a tunnel--- a red and white tunnel. The princess being the red bulls eye------ahem, this is a Target ad.

But I am a good set mom and keep all of this inside.

They put my car back to her self---angry eyes and all and I load my stuff into her.

We roll off the freight elevator and up to the parking attendant----who informs me, “Wow, it’s a good thing they took care of this for you—would’ve cost $144.”

Only in NY.

We speed out of the city and back towards the safety of New Hampshire.

Oh, and the artist formally known as Princess, (symbol to follow, but it’s my understanding it is basically the female symbol with the VW in the middle), is insisting I call Nate Berkus to do a redesign on her half of the garage.

On not being 20 anymore...

Wow.

Give me one fun filled, jam packed, long weekend as an adult and I apparently now need 12 hours of sleep to recover.

There were a couple of firsts added to this old girls list.

The Princess is a born star.

I need to go have coffee with my best friend and catch her up.

In less than an hour.

I should already be showering.

Stay tuned.

You won't be disappointed.

What would you do?

Oh the complicated little life I lead. Everyday I am presented with a new and challenging decision to make.

To shave or not to shave? That is the question.

If you’re a woman it needs no explanation.

However, since the majority of peeps leaving comments lately are men, explain I will.

I am getting ready to head to NY for the weekend to visit my husband. He lives and works there 6 days a week and has for the past year and a half. But that’s a blog for another day.

So there I am in the shower rinsing the Loreal Tone Refiner from my hair. (Because I’m worth it damn it!)

And it hits me, the monthly conundrum.

The blessed curse has arrived the Red Tent erected, (excellent idea BTW) and the stubble rears it’s ugly head.

OY. Like I need one more bloody thing to deal with.

Literally.

While it’s true that there will be no mattress tag on the itinerary, do I owe him the courtesy of legs that won’t slice him if he rubs up against them?

He is my husband.

No one enjoys going to bed with a Ron Popeil Chop-o-Matic.

I only see him a couple times a month.

I wish I could say that I did it for him in the end, but that would be a lie.

I did it for the Princess.

Princess Poppy, my 1998 Red New Beetle.

She is being used in a print ad this Sunday and Monday.

I am living vicariously through my car and I’m sure my son is thankful for this.

I didn’t want to embarrass her, so in the end I did it for the Princess.

And I’d do it again.

I have seen the other side and it is NOT pretty

There was one very enlightening thing that happened while I rode out the hormonal tsunami that was my life last week.

I became a man for 3 days.

Okay, no. I did not grow a penis. And yes. I still had boobies.

But other than that, I became a man.

I did man like things and I had no control over the situation.

Bathing now seemed optional.

I developed an uncontrollable itch on my ass. My hand spent more time down the back of my pants during those 3 days then it has in the entire other 43 years and 362 days of my life.

And I didn’t care where I was or who was around while I scratched.

It’s going to be a very long time before I will be welcome at the deli counter.

My yoga instructor didn’t buy that there was a variation of Proud Warrior called Proud Warrior 2.5 with a hand down your pants.

I told her she wasn’t as evolved as she claimed.

During those 3 days a small mountain grew on the floor beside my bed.

It was as if there was a magnetic field that would not allow socks or underwear to make their way to the clothes hamper just a couple feet away.

Dishes would not, could not be put into the empty dishwasher. They were piled willy nilly-- no scraping or rinsing.

Glasses grew on every piece of furniture in the house. All only half empty.

The most disturbing thing though, was how I was still my real self, trapped inside my head.

I was screaming in there at what was happening. More to the point, what was not happening.

So when for those three days I could not manage to put the mascara back in it’s little elastic sleeve in my make-up case----- somewhere inside it was driving my real self quite mad indeed.

It was going against the grain.

I am a total creature of organization and habit.

For instance, let’s talk about bathrooms.

I have realized over the last couple years that if I use the bathroom in a public place more than once, I will use whatever stall I used the first time.

Even if the next time is months down the road.

Any public bathroom.

In my town, state, and country or across the Atlantic--------I automatically use the stall I used the first time.

If it’s occupied, I will wait.

It’s okay----laugh. I find it a bit bizarre as well.

So on that morning when I actually slipped the tube of mascara back into it’s rightful spot in the case, I knew I was back.

I celebrated by doing the laundry and cleaning the house.

Without scratching my ass once.

Hang on sugar, I'm going down swinging!

Explanations are in order as to why I haven’t posted in such a long time.

It was the hormones. Not just any hormones. Hairy hormones.

HAIRY. SCAREY. HORMONES.

Coincided with Halloween, which goes to prove that the goddess’ have a wickedly dark sense of humour.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I wish I could tell you something much more dramatic and practical.

Like;

1. I was riveted to the Supreme Court Nominee shuffle of lameness

2. I was busy discovering the 11th planet. It’s name is Periodo and it can not possibly support any life forms as it’s atmosphere is too volatile and unpredictable with storms that seem to come out of nowhere without warning.

3. I was bathing the dog. (Seriously, that would be a week plus project.)

Honestly, my uterus hasn’t demanded this much airtime since I was pregnant 17 years ago.

I know what your thinking……….and NO.

I. Am. Not. Pregnant.

Keep up people!

Go back and read…

http://angelchicklitfic.blogspot.com/2005/09/red-sox-1-game-down-behind-yankees.html.

We’ll all wait here for you, and yes, we’ll be talking amongst ourselves.

About you.

Back to the present.

I know that my cycle gets wild, wooly and wonderfully eccentric during the big seasonal transitions.

Spring into Summer. Autumn into Winter.

That’s not what they’ll tell me at my appointment today.

Yeah. That appointment.

I am too old to be that kind of humiliated on a yearly basis.

Oh, and let’s just set the record straight right now.

I will not perpetuate the lie.

It does not get any easier as the years roll by.

If I thought it was humiliating when I was 19 without an ounce of body fat and my, ahem, everything was where it should be-----------how do you think I feel at 44 with the added bonuses of cellulite, spreadage, (yeah I made up that word), and sagging?

I’m old but I still have my pride.

I propose that after we are allowed to remove our naked everything back down to earth and cover it as the goddess’ intended it to be, that we get to perform one embarrassingly invasive procedure of our choice on the Doc who just removed all those prehistoric torture devices from our very tender bits!

Bloody sadists!

I am honest to a fault which is why when they ask if my cycle has been regular, I will explain the last two months in all it’s glory.

September’s visit was late. Very late. Over a week late.

It taught me one thing.

My son is 16 ½ and I am two short years away from having control over my own life again.

The thought of being pregnant and giving birth at my age did not bother me.

The thought of 2 consecutive 18-year interments was bone chilling and I felt a horror that was indescribable.

The fact that I ran out onto my back deck and screamed into the sky with joy when it finally showed---------- well, that was scary for the neighbors.

Gina Davis may be thrilled with becoming a parent for the first time at 45 and giving birth to twins at 48 but she was out making movies and walking the red carpet through her 30’s.

I was busy in my 30’s with all that stuff that she’ll be doing into her-------60’s.

Madonna is also talking about wanting more children. Good for her.

I love Madonna. But she had more sex in any given weekend in her 30’s then I had in the entire decade.

I have some catching up to do.

I remember sex and I think I liked it.

If I can quote from that epic film, Monty Python and the Holy Grail;

"I'm not dead yet."

I’m going shopping for a bigger Day Planner.

And you’re not off the hook----- I have at least a weeks worth of hormonal sagas to post.