This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

Rambling thoughts today.

Do you ever just wonder how some people function? Wonder what it’s like to live in their heads? Who manages their lives? How they get dressed in the morning? I mean, does someone have to remind them to wear pants?

20429608_10213154262631975_7696887194360992809_n

How did this person manage to go their entire lives and not hear the word “chair”? How does that even happen?

In other news, I have found 4 pieces of furniture that I must paint and resell. Technically, I found about 20. Unfortunately, I cannot afford a storage unit in which to store them all, so I have to stick with very small things – and honestly, I don’t even know where I’m going to put these, but I HAVE TO DO IT.

20374517_663106587229697_959355714987852807_n

I mean seriously. Tell me this $25 pair of chairs doesn’t need me. CLEARLY they have been waiting their whole lives for me to find them for $25 and paint them some crazy ass color and recover their sad little seats and make them just too cute for words.

Excuse me, I mean these wood framed single sofas.

I don’t know where the hell they’re going to go. That’s actually not true. They’re going to be in my living room, blocking either the closet or the front door, until I can paint them and learn to reupholster. Whatever. They’re coming to live here so I can bring them back to life.

Along with the other 37 pieces of furniture I have no room for.

Between this compulsion, the constant repairs and my messiness, my apartment will never be guest-appropriate. It is what it is.

I do actually have nice things. You just have to look for them in the madness.

Where’s My Paper Chain?

This post is about periods, so here’s your first and only warning.

When does menopause happen? Like when, though? Seriously. First one was at 11, and I just turned 43. Since mine are closer together than they’re supposed to be, I’m guessing I’ve had around 450+ periods by now, and I’m done. I’m just effing done.

I hate them. I hate you. I hate everything. I hate being a girl. I hate cramps. I hate period-induced IBS. I hate bloating. I hate feeling as if I have never slept ever in my life yet. I hate men for not having them and for generally just existing. I hate everyone who doesn’t have a period. I hate everyone who has a period and doesn’t have cramps.

I hate being overheated and starving like every meal is Chinese takeout because I’m hungry every hour on the hour like clockwork. I hate the sound of people talking/breathing/chewing/existing and the sound of cars driving by and all of the music I didn’t pick. I hate the way people park and walk and ride bikes in the road while I’m driving on it.

I hate tampons and pads and bleeding for 3-5 days and then followed by one day of nothing so I think it’s over and then Mother Nature is a shady bitch and decides to wring out my uterus one last time but not enough for any sanitary products after that, so then you have the dry tampon scenario which is painful in an overzealous-gyno-with-a-speculum kind of way.

“A little closer to the edge, hon. A little more…” Bitch, you have no idea how close to the edge I am.

I digress…

My uterus has no purpose whatsoever. It never did. Why do I have to go through this? How many more? I am 43 now. I feel like I should get a countdown for my birthday. I want a construction paper chain for how many periods I have left before its all over and I can finally just not.

The pain is stupid. STUPID. Why? Why does it hurt like this? Oh, are we gonna talk about Eve? Okay, sure. The Bible said that she was going to have painful childbirth. NOT painful every month you aren’t about to give birth or every month you’re not pregnant or anything else. ChildBIRTH. Having your period is the OPPOSITE of giving birth. It is, by its very nature, the ABSENCE of even the possibility of a birth.

I want answers. And a paper chain.

My head hurts. I feel nauseated. My lower abdomen feels like someone has taken hold of my fallopian tubes and tied them into knots, and is pulling at each end. Then they’re kicking it, while sword-fighting with my ovaries. Meanwhile, my useless uterus is feeling stabby because its angry that for the 456th time, it doesn’t get to make a baby. So that sucker is tearing down the “inside nursery” like Mommy Dearest on a tangent.

My useless, angry uterus shall now and forever be known as Joan Crawford. The right ovary is pretty quiet, so that one’s gonna be Kristen Stewart – awkward, slightly difficult and wears a resting bitch face so she’s a little frightening. The left one is definitely 2007 Britney Spears. Crazy fits of rage are her legacy.

There. I just named my reproductive-less organs.

My ankles and feet are swollen. My tummy is bloated. My boobs hurt. I have to pee every five minutes, even when I don’t (it just feels like it, so it’s uncomfortable). I have the bad potties (you can figure that one out). My back hurts. I’m exhausted – and I mean full-on fatigue from head to toe. I can’t concentrate on anything and my memory sucks, along with my attitude.

I faked being human for work, but I’m home now and I hate everything.

How. Many. Are. Left.

That’s all I want to know.

I’ve done my time. I deserve to not feel this awful every damned month. Imagine (assuming you’re still reading and you’re a guy) that you’re knocked down with the flu for roughly 5 days every month. And also bleeding.

Every month.

The ONLY exception is if you’re growing a person – at the end of which, you have to push it out of THERE. And then you have to bleed for another month and a half… STRAIGHT.

So look, I’m just going to tell you right now that if I decide I hate your guts just because you have the ability to pee standing up, let it go, man. Just back away slowly. You laugh about it and get grossed out, but we have to deal with this shit every month for like 40 years. FORTY YEARS. You better suck it up and be sweet, because if God ever granted wishes, I’m betting the vast majority of women would wish this on you at least once.

You couldn’t handle this. Shut your face hole and go cut some construction paper into strips.

Oh, Blogger

One of my dream jobs would be to write a blog and get paid for it. Unfortunately, there are far too many shiny things that need my immediate attention at any given time. I’ve written countless journal entries, online and in books only half-filled with my ramblings. Distraction takes over until I lose focus entirely on the goal of completion.

I’m not sure how to choose a topic and stick with it. What could hold my interest long enough to continue finding new things to say about it? Even more importantly, what could hold an audience’s attention long enough to carry regular followers?

The answer lies somewhere in my background, I’m sure. The potential for becoming stagnant always stops me from choosing. Shall I write about my mother? Her life? Her death? How would I write of her without each entry ending up sad, and how do I keep that sadness from overwhelming me?

I could write about being overweight in this life of mine. What its like to live in this body I’m not supposed to love. Unfortunately, that’s a subject that will also become depressing and could turn sour and “complainy”. The silver lining to that is that I’m really good at complaining and self-deprecation. I still think no one wants to hear it, and that there are too many blogs already beating that dead horse.

I could write about religion, but my view is narrow and a little bitter. Enough blogs about that, too.

How about my dogs? Being a childless spinster? Nah.

There is nothing under the sun that is new and interesting enough for me to write about… only my perspective of all the things. Well, some of the things.

The next dilemma comes when I think about how I could just write about all the things anyway, and forget about sticking to a topic – because, let’s face it, I’m funny. If I don’t stick to a particular subject, therefore garnering an audience interested in said topic, how would I find companies willing to place ads (this is where getting paid comes in)? You have to narrow down your market for that.

AND… what about the number of followers you have to have before that’s even a possibility?

A friend suggested I fictionalize some of my own experiences. For example, changing the outcome a little or the details to make my weird stories even funnier. I may try my hand at that, but will most likely keep those to myself until I have a decent collection going.

I don’t know. I’m working all this out in my head right now, and need to process before I can move forward.

The same friend also gave me some sage advice from an author friend of hers…

“If you want to be a writer, write.”

What Now?

Every year, my birthday looms on a murky cloud of regret. It approaches slowly until around June first, then it seems to gain momentum until the final ten days, like a countdown to an unknown wave of emotions.

Will I be okay with the new age in numbers? Nope. I usually don’t come down from panic mode for about a month or so, and even then, it takes some convincing. It’s okay, 43 isn’t really THAT old. You’re still in your EARLY forties. There’s a lot of that conversation playing out in my head, starting around TODAY, and ending sometime in August.

Just a little while ago, I was on the phone with a friend, discussing my decision to go to college. Yes, you read that right. Well, let me back up a little. I’m meeting with a counselor at the college next week, to discuss my options. But hey, that’s one step I’ve never taken. So yeah, if that goes well, I’ll be starting college in the fall.

Anyhoo, I’m talking to my friend and she asked what prompted that decision.

“Well, I’m bored. I mean, bored with where my life is. I’m in that weird place in life where you can start fresh (exciting!) but you feel old (depressing!), and you know the plans you had twenty years ago didn’t pan out, but you’re not too old to make new plans….but you’re not sure about trying to make new plans, but you have a birthday coming up and it makes you reevaluate all the things and the stuff and finally you realize that you’re in the “What now?” phase of your life and you just have to do SOMETHING to break the monotony.”

That was my answer. Have you ever said something aloud and then realized you’ve just said something incredibly poignant? Happens to me ALL. THE. TIME. “Oooh, that was good. I like that. I should write that down.” – Me, 45 minutes ago. Also me, about once or twice a week.

So there it is. I’m in the “What Now?” phase in life. I’ve walked up the see-saw and I’m standing precariously in the center, tottering back and forth, wondering if I should keep going – because that’s downhill – or go back the way I came, which, as it turns out, is also downhill.

I feel like I’m choosing option three. I’m going to balance in the middle for juuuuuust a little bit longer. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m standing still, though. It means I’m keeping one foot on each life – young and old. It means I’m practicing my balance (which will come in handy when I am actually old). It means I’m going to teeter-totter…stretch my legs and strengthen my core.

It means I’m on that pretty blank page between Part One and Part Two of a great novel. The place where you take a deep breath, switch the laundry over and grab a drink before you settle back in for the long haul and see how it all turns out.

It can be a good place, if I want it to be.