Archives for posts with tag: menopause

A NAUGHTY POST:

There’s a lot going on in my body right now, what with my estrogen and progesterone packing its bags and leaving, my egg production in rapid decline, and all the symptoms making my head spin like a possessed woman – I’m increasingly enamored with the idea of a complete gender reassignment.

I’ve often noticed the difference between the having the penis and not having the penis in my relationship, and I kinda feel like I’ve been dealt a raw blow. If I had the penis – would I be as annoying with it?

Probably.. but first I want to share way too much with you – about the penis and what I might, and might not do, if I had one.

Would Not:

  1. If I had a penis, I would basically not spend 80% of my time tryin to stick it in Fitty.
  2. If Fitty went to lay down in the daytime, because he was tired from all the work he does to feed me and keep me alive, I would not always appear second’s later in the doorway, naked and lewdly suggesting playtime by nodding my head and saying “Hey…..hey…. heeeey?”
  3. I would definitely not pretend that my “morning wood” was a “rudderless ship” attempting to “moor” by banging into the “dry-dock” repeatedly.
  4. I would never stand with my arms above my head, eyes closed, and pee all over the toilet seat.
  5. If I came into the bathroom and found Fitty naked after a shower, leaning over the basin cleaning his teeth, I would not pin him by the thighs to the edge of the vanity, lick his ear, and dry hump him until toothpaste came out his nose.
  6. I would try not to spend every waking moment adjusting my junk and then shaking people’s hands.

Would:

  1. I would employ only the very best surgeons and have them craft me a designer cock. One Fitty would be proud to put in his mouth!
  2. I would enjoy arriving home from work and having a meal cooked for me, and if I felt like cooking, I would enjoy that too… infrequently.
  3. I would listen to the things my penis was telling me constantly, but I would reply knowing who I was talking to. “Yes, yes I know you need me to tweak his nipples and grind him into the bench, but we did that yesterday remember? Do your balls still hurt?”
  4. I would prolly think that the best way to help on the day we’re having people over for lunch, would be to get up and start drinking beer, while standing around the barbecue looking relaxed  – because I realise that my penis would entirely inhibit my ability to help with cleaning and food preparation.
  5. I would enjoy taking frequent dumps without ever having to clean the toilet, and squirt shower products up the wall. (It’s not like my penis and I can do anything about that situation!)
  6. Most of my beverages would be brought to me where I sit, and I guess I’ll just get called for dinner like everyone else – now that I’ve got a penis!

The absence of a penis means so much more suffering. The hormones (my vagina and it’s assorted company) require to transition from “fertile” to “not fucking interested at all” are making me unpleasant and prone to long bouts of whinging. I go up and down like a yo-yo, never quite fully aware of what I’m doing and saying until after, when I quietly think about it… realise I’ve been a bitch.

Sure, a gender reassignment is probably not going to happen – but the look on Fitty’s face, every time I remind him that it is entirely possible that I could pay the money, come home with a sorta functioning dick, and chase him around the house with it wanging around in my hand – it’s just too priceless to ever let go!

*I always get Fitty to look at a post like this before I post it. (I am somewhat sensitive to his feelings after all.) The only comment he made other than laughing was in reply to the designer cock in mouth situation –

“I so would fucking NOT put it in my mouth!”

And so, it appears we have an agreement of sorts!!

 

I was chatting to Other Mother this morning on Facebook Messenger, and the subject of work came up.  I revealed to O.M. that I felt I was Not Safe For Work anymore. I was always too stressed. Too angry, too tired all the time. I had no extra energy.

I could never sleep. I would sit up all hours of the night, and struggle in the mornings. I rushed everywhere. Everything was hurried, and disorganised.

Weekends felt ruined when I had to start a shift at 4.pm on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Working nights, and days on a rotating roster often left me finishing work at 12am, to start work again the following morning at 8.00am. With so many kids in the house every other week, it was insane just trying to keep up the washing!

So I resigned. After the worst year of health I’ve ever experienced, struggling through surgery and recoveries, all the while struggling at work.  I finally Put Myself First.

Behind the scenes, Peri-Menopause had already begun to wreak havoc.

I was emotional, and would cry during the “The Ode” at work each night. We had a Soldier (2), over in Afghanistan at the time, and each time I heard that line, “They shall not grow old”, I would hold my breath, tears streaming down my face in the dark.

I was resentful.

Piles of dishes, clothes, dirty bedrooms and bathrooms. Why can nobody else in this house clean a toilet?

I would return home from work at night to Fitty idling in neutral, waiting to see which “gear” I required of him. Would I be in tears of pain? Would I be cranky and tired, grumbling about how they had “all night to wash the dishes”?

I resented everyone. Cars on the road were just ‘blocking my way’. Other shoppers were ‘ignorantly slow’. The kids and Fitty alternately brought me comfort and joy, or immense frustration and exasperation.

I had pain killers, and would only use them sparingly, as they were serious drugs. Ones the doctor has to ask nicely for from the Government. This left me struggling through the “gaps” in my pain-relief awkwardly. Pain would suddenly come upon me at work, after hours of standing on my feet, and it was almost impossible to relieve that pain at work. I needed a bath, and quiet space until the medication stepped up again. I was doing it all wrong.

I’m pretty sure my work friends who read the blog will identify strongly with what I’m saying here. I must have been incredibly hard to work with at times.

So, how have things changed?

Instead of shouting from bed at 9.00am Saturdays for everybody to “Shutthafuckup!”, I’m up every single day by 6.00am. Smiling, happy, with the kids lunches made on weekdays.

I rarely leave my house. I only go out when I really need to, barely ever for social reasons. If I do drop in on T, or meet up for lunch with friends, I try to do at least one other errand while I’m out. Efficiency and Economy are my new middle names.

I drive slowly now, never in a hurry. In fact I don’t think I’ve been in a proper “hurry” since I finished work! I’m cruisin. Usta be a road-rager, now I create it!

I used to shop on the way home from work, buying useless items spontaneously. Now I have a list, and know what I need. I have time to make sure I don’t waste food. I can plan meals, and we actually eat a lot better, healthier and far more economically.

I have time to bake. Saying “I love you” to a child by baking a warm batch of cookies for them when they get home from school. I love baking. When I’m happy, I bake.

It’s taking me time, (as I am a procrastinator of the highest order), but I am slowly re-decorating our house, and will be renovating bathrooms, the kitchen and helping Fitty build new stairs in future months. I’m excited by the work I do now.

I’ve systematically gone through every cupboard in the house making space, getting rid of junk and creating space for new junk to live.

My relationships have changed.

I’m going to be achingly honest here….

One of the most significant changes I’ve made is just being fucking quiet.

It’s a subtle thing as much as it is obvious. I no longer have to be the one talking. I listen more. I hesitate before I offer my opinion. I walk away from things I used to nag about.

All because I have spent so many hours here in this beautiful, tranquil spot, just soaking up the “relax”.

This is my medicine. This home, this family, are my healing.

This lake brings me peace.

This lake brings me peace.

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS MATERIAL OF A HIGHLY SENSITIVE AND MISLEADING NATURE. SERIOUSLY, DON’T READ THIS.

“Hi. My name is Peri, I’m here to signal the end. The end of all you once held dear…. Like peace of mind, and clean underwear. I’m outrageously behaved and will make you so hot! Wanna get fucked up together?”

It’s a New World. A world of significant change in your body and your soul.

It’s like puberty, but not anywhere near as exciting. No pimply boyfriend waiting to hear if your late period has arrived yet? (In fact, nobody seems concerned about your late period at all anymore?) You just go through all the motions, the cramps, the bitchiness, the waiting….

You decide, (with all your Google inspired research) that *last month was in fact YOUR LAST PERIOD EVER.

*A menopausal month may last anywhere between 2 weeks and 6 months.

In celebration, you dress in your newest underwear, and white skirt. As a nod, you might wear a pretty red blouse, signifying your respect to all those still under chains.

You might make it a good 3 feet before your uterus explodes. (Trust me. Peri loves a good joke.)

Recently, someone suggested the use of a Moon Cup? “Moon Cup?” I google to myself. “What is this sorcery?”

Having checked it out and guessed my requirements, it turns out that I need a cup roughly the size of the of the 30 oz cup peri-diabetics use at MacDonald’s.

Now I may have had a few children push their box heads through my sacred passage, but as to whether I want a giant goblet shoved up my deepest resource?

I say NAY.

Talk about Big Gulp…. how does Big Heave sound? There is no way, just no way I’m going to thrust a cup into my Vajajay, trusting it to just hold there, full of my womanliness. What happens when you sit down? What happens when you bend over?

I think you can imagine without me having to “go there?”

I don’t care what teenagers with Lovely-Lady-Passages say, these “Moon Cups” are not for serious contenders. Obviously.

A lot of people may think that dry skin is a symptom of ill health, or old age (in a woman of 47 such as myself). In truth, it is simply a bi-product of spending 90% percent of your life scrubbing stains out of clothing, underwear and bed sheets. There is currently no sanitary product on earth capable of containing my visits from Aunt Flo.

Along with all these pleasant effects? You also get to develop the personality of Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

Your head spins, you spew out obscenities, and stabbing is the new cuddling. You wake up in the middle of the night with hot wax poured all over your legs, torso, neck and face.

“Oh? It isn’t hot wax?”

“It’s a HOT FLUSH you say, Dr VagSmiter?”

Let me tell you where you can flush it then?

Try this if you want to know how it feels:

1. Have a shower and go to bed all cool and temperate.

2. Toss and turn until you achieve level 1 sleep. (That which can be disturbed by a moth-wing flutter.)

3. Cover yourself in flames that build slowly from the top of your thighs, through your middle, spreading upwards to the chest, neck and face.

4. Rip your face off, scratching and clawing at the invisible crawlies creeping on your skin. (Achieve Level 2 Crackhead)

5. Have dream you are afloat in liquid.

6. Wake up afloat in liquid.

7. REPEAT NIGHTLY.

HA HA HA HA – kill me?

Of course Peri isn’t just for YOU – Peri is here for the WHOLE FAMILY to enjoy. He knows how much your husband and kids depend on you to be a psychotic mother and wife. He won’t stop until he has undermined your relationship with every single member of your family. He enjoys conflict, anxiety, discomfort, instability and many more fun activities.

Let’s have a look at Things I have said this week.

“Why don’t I just BUY UNDERWEAR WITH FUCKING BLOOD STAINS on it?” – To Fitty.

“I’m not a bitch! It’s hormones coming out of my mouth.” – To anyone who will listen.

“So help me if you even look at me like you’re going to talk during this show? I’m going to stab you.” – To Fitty

“Why don’t you EVER LISTEN TO ME?” To nobody, obviously!

“I was listening to you, but you are so fucking boring I just stopped.” Yup – Fitty.

“I’m not the only clumsy fucker around here, so for fuck’s sake, pick that shit up before somebody DIES!” – To shit left on floor. (Nobody was even home!)

“What in the FUCK do you think you’re DOING?” – To anyone doing anything.

It’s okay though. I’m fine….. really!

I just know that in another 30 years or so, I’ll  be dead, and I won’t be bothered by any of this anymore.

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