MENOPAUSAL FOG. FACT OR FICTION?

Now I've never been an organised Annie and have been known to attend appointments the wrong date but right time, or vice versa. I'd think that's what I'd heard/read three weeks prior and won't bother to check, that's how I roll, badly I admit. I am convinced that the menopausal fog exists. I find my self in the middle of a sentence when.....? I can be in mid flow and suddenly I can't remember the bloody word I wanted to use and instead of styling it and replacing it with another, I shall stand there stammering and stuttering, scratching my head 'What's the bloody word?', while the person I'm conversing with stands guessing as I shake my head vigorously, 'No not that, like that, but different!'. It can go on for hours! I'm aware we all have the usual, for instance going upstairs then standing in the bedroom or bathroom not knowing what the fuck your doing there is a classic. You know no matter how long you stand there, unless you run back down those pissing stairs, you're never going to remember. It's as though the bottom banister post is a memory jogging device and as soon as you place your hand on it you shout 'Bollocks, toilet rolls!'. At this point I usually knock the mound of coats and bags piled high onto the floor screaming 'If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times stop dumping your shit here! Hang it up on the pissing pegs!'. You then  pivot round and breathlessly head back up. Or, if you're like me you'll be sat on downstairs toilet with your knickers round your ankles ' bollocks toilet roll!'.

 Then there's trudging out to face the ordeal of the 'big shop' having spent a week practically adding goods to the list that I've placed on fridge, using a parrot magnet from Tenerife with its tail missing and no beak left to speak of (ha! do you get it, I surprise myself sometimes!). I even have a pen holder I've devised from blue tack, cat hairs, and something hard that I can't identify which pokes out the side (I thinks its a Cheerio but I'm to scared to stick my tongue on it to taste). Top tip, always place pen nib down as bastard pen won't work. I rummage through my 100 bags for life, picking out my favourites, the most practical. The one from M&S, its getting shabby but got the bottle slots in end, its a keeper. My Sainsbury's Xmas one with Rudolph on front, his nose no longer lights up but the bags broken in nicely making it flexible for when a speedy bag change over is required at the tills. Waitrose, well because its Waitrose even if it does have holes worn in the corners and only one handle, one likes to keep up appearances. You know, the favourites. I always aim for the supermarket between 10 and 2,  quiet time and offering prime parking. The golden oldies having been and gone up with the larks, and Mums are heading back in time for the school pick up. Of course I cover both of those categories but I'm a rarity, there's not many idiots who timed there child bearing as appallingly as I.  Once parked I remove my precious trolley token hidden away in the back of the disused ashtray behind a euro, hairy hair bands and half melted wine gum. All of which are strategically placed to stop sticky fingers trying their luck (sticky fingers, wine gum, do you get it? I'm on fire today!). So, I've got my trolley I'm armed with my fave shopping bags, I've got my parking hot spot......hold on. I'VE FORGOTTEN THE EFFIN LIST. I then have to shop unguided, needless to say we lived on Tena Lady and Nutella that week. Still, least it will shake up the kids packed lunches. Now, many may say that all this happens all the time, and it does, but only as you get older!

 Another thing I've become aware of is I can not concentrate on anything. A film, T.V, reading a book,even listening to my children talking to me which is a rarity. Eagerly they'll be sharing an exciting event which happened at school where apparently fuck all happens, ever, when I ask. But recently I find myself secretly thinking hurry up your boring the shit out of me and I can't keep this interested nodding act up for much longer (don't you lot make out it's just me). In fact I've got to the point where I only read magazines full of tat, the longest story line I can handle on a screen are the telly ads.  Maybe my patience levels have now dropped down to zero. Maybe nothing holds my attention as I am now at an age where I am so wise and knowledgeable that nothing is interesting or stimulating enough for my brain to retain! By Jove I think I've cracked it! This is not menopausal fog this is self awareness, self appreciation, self indulgence! Nothing else matters except me and its about fucking time, it's only taken me 49 yrs (50 this yr!) to realise it! 

Back soon Mave x

P.S. Or rather note to self, need toilet roll and Tena ladies.




 

BANK HOLIDAYS, WHO GIVES A SHIT!

I hate the bank holidays! There once was a time when they were known as a BONK holiday in my life.  Now they're just an extended shitty weekend with two Sundays. If I had any family to speak of, or a job that demanded all my time, I'm sure I'd be jumping for joy at the prospect of one.  I have neither so can't stand them, just another gap at the end of a week in which all routine and boundaries are non exsistant.

This weekend however I found my doing as others do, making plans, trying to look forward to it etc. It started with an impromptu BBQ on the Friday which goes against all I believe in. I cannot commit which means everything I do is last minute.com but then I hate not being organised. I'm a walking talking contradiction making my own life a fucking misery. Now the idea of a BBQ is all very nice except I don't want any guests and I don't want to do the cooking. See my problem? Well apply that to every aspect of my life and you'll get an idea of what I'm dealing with. My eldest always says I need to loosen up, easy to say when you're the one sat with your feet up swigging your cider watching me run between three BBQ's trying to get one bastard coal to turn white. It took 3 hours to cook any food and even then I tossed it all on a tray in the oven. I must say the three guests I had were all very understanding saying how it didn't matter and there was no rush. If your sat on your fat arse lashing back the alcohol whilst some other Jo does all the hard work I can see their point! I could feel myself getting all Reggie Kray (or Ronnie, which one was madder?), wanting to push their faces onto the hot mesh surface of the BBQ.  Would have been pointless though as there was not enough heat to even muster a blister.

The next day after my failed BBQ (I would qualify being ravenous and wanting to badly burn all guests as a failure), I went to a music festival that was being held in my city. It will be alright i said, I'm taking the kids, all good. I bought the tickets in the morning after a, do I, don't I frenzy in true non committal fashion. Surprisingly enough the printer worked and I had no need to kick the shit out of it after turning it on and off, reinstalling it 25 times as it took 8 hours from my life I would never get back.  An iphone took this recently as I tried to reset it to factory settings, 8 hours, that's a whole working day. Apple owe me a days salary the dicks, and the phone never reset.

After arriving at festival I spent the first 30 minutes in a state of high anxiety. Why was there so many people all ambling about in different directions! I realised pretty soon that I wasn't going to beat them so I may as well join them. Straight to the packed bar I headed after marking my territory with a huge blanket to sit on. Gin and tonic as dictated by Slimming World was not going to cut it today. I was not queueing for 20 mins for a small amount of liquid I would consume before I got to sit back down. Instead I opted for Cider, a pint of, which after having made it back to my marked territory through what I would describe as a human banger race, my 10 yr old promptly kicked over. In fact the words 'You fucking idiot!' rang across the mayhem momentarily silencing the mania surrounding me.  After a few hours of trying to pretend I was sorry and chilled and it wasn't her fault I had the kids collected from the main gate and I headed straight back to the bar demanding a Jager Bomb (I think that's what it is, except I ask if can just have the Jager as the bomb keeps me up all night and we can't have that can we).

Can I just make a suggestion to all festival organisers. Can we have family toilets and wreck head toilets. This is nothing to do with hygiene and not wanting my precious children's bottoms contaminated by the soiled seats. This is strictly a time thing, I want to pee and get out, so did the kids. Yes I'm a saddo I timed myself 50 seconds, that's all 50 seconds.  Now when you're stuck in ques behind wreck heads taking 3-4 minutes it can get fucking frustrating. Quite frankly if you haven't mastered the art of getting your shit (I mean narcotics not pooh) sorted in under 2 minutes then you are not seasoned enough to be doing it at a festival! Do it in your own time, at home in your own toilet until you're up to speed to go public so to speak! I must say though with the sedative help of the alcohol the rest of the festival went by without a hitch ending in my falling onto the last bus home and trying to portray soberness. I didn't do to badly, when turning a not so sharp corner, at a low speed, a girl fell of her chair and rolled across the floor like an empty can before three other passengers helped her back on her seat. Not me though, I just gnawed the poor cows ears off as I got off at the same stop and saw it as my motherly duty to make sure she got home safe. Think I'll be giving that road a swerve for a while. Shoot me now!

The Sunday and Monday were spent pretending that I was just another normal person enjoying the break and the weather. Walking to the local pub for a Sunday roast and having a hair of dog. Who am I kidding, the gravy was shite and the drink just kicked off the underlying hangover anxiety.  I just wanted to lay in bed, curtains closed, one leg out the quilt coz it's  fucking sweltering outside but I need my comfort blanket over me lessening my venerability. I May even have called my ex to hold on to like a deranged out of sorts limpet that needs some creature comforts. Only by the next day I've straightened out, all my sweaty bedding full of bad hangover memories needs washing, and the ex is a wanker! Thank God its Tuesday, now you don't hear that very often.

Back soon, Mave

P.S I swear the progesterone side to my HRT sends me psycho, to be discussed!

THE ALL CLEAR

Today, I have been given the all clear on a mammogram test after finding a 'lump' in my right boob. Now I know I should be over the moon, relieved, feeling blessed etc but I'm just not! In no shape or form am I undermining the importance of the negative results or the horror of those that receive positive, It's just I feel numb! As selfish and inexplicable as it sounds theres a part of me that thinks now what, I have at least another 35yrs left on this planet and ashamedly right at this moment its not an exciting prospect!

I'm 49 turning 50 this year and I'm sat in an on site Pret A Manger, supping on a decaf skinny latte (Slimming World and trapped wind dictated) in a hospital because I don't want to go home. The sad thing is it's not even the hospital where I had my mammogram appointment, it's another I pass on my way home. I'm feeling like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, I could survive in this hospital quite easily without ever having to leave the building. It's got all facilities and services required (actually they do need to upgrade they're Internet service if I'm to stay, signals shit!) In fact I've often thought of buying some blues off of Ebay, sticking my Crocs on and hanging around the League of Friends to see if I could bag me a Dr. The only thing that puts me off is what if I were called into theatre as an emergency nurse, imagine! There'd be a tuna and cucumber brown roll (dictated by Slimming World) floating about in the abdominal cavity.

Today, is in a way the beginning of the rest of my life and I'm just not feeling it! Why not?! I know my circumstances could be better, single parent to 3 kids, all fathers #abscentfuckwits. I've a history of complicated disastrous relationships all brought on by my appalling decision making when picking men and my delusional expectations of romance which I blame on the film industry. In fact I'm thinking of taking them to the small claims court reimburse me of emotional losses, small claims only goes up to £10,000 though and they've fooked me over big time. I have no extended family to help out, what's it called 'family support' what the hell is that when it's at home?! On paper it does read abysmally (is that even a word? If not it exists on my shitty planet), but as the saying goes 'At least you've got your health'. 

My health. Now apart from being diagnosed with chronic rhinitis, chronic constipation, polyps on my womb, menorrhagia, perimenopause, bad eye sight (every orifice has it's ailment except my ears but my Mum was almost deaf by 60 hoo-rah! What?!) severe skin allergies, moderate depression, anxiety, allergy to temporary fillings, yes you read that right even my mouth blows up if a temporary filling goes in (note to self, add to orifice list). Apart from that my health is tickety-boo! As my own saying goes 'Theres always something wrong with me but it's never bloody life threatening!'. Once again at the risk of sounding ungrateful this means I have to wait for 6-9 months for treatment for anything. Except the mammogram which was arranged in under 2 weeks as it is especially important to get seen, but of course on the day I couldn't find the damned lump myself which I had been prodding and probing for 6 months prior. Sods bloody law! Apparently I have to be careful with my wording the Dr said. It's not a lump it's fat, charming, Mrs old fat tits.

This may not be the start of the rest of my exciting life but what it is,is the start of this Blog. Who knows what I may spew out but one things for sure I'll be spewing. Now I have to get to work, although I was hoping on trying out my home colonic irrigation kit provided kindly by the hospital for my constipation. It will arrive in a discreet brown package the nurse said, don't worry about that I said, I talk to everyone about my pooh problems, even the postman's up to date. Anyway, as the above states I have allot to share, get out there, this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Back soon, Mave

P.S My Tinder notification just pinged. Now there's a whole other story.