I’m Hormoanal

My sincere intention to blog weekly fell by the wayside due to ongoing health issues (annoying but not calamitous); but this is something I must share:

My first* collection is published tomorrow, February 7th, by Matthew James Publishing.

*Ever the optimist

According to MJP, my 

signature biting wit and incredible relatability will have you laughing one minute and sympathising the next.

I can live with that. And with this, in particular: 

This collection of sharp, confident, and witty feminist poetry is the voice of the everyday woman putting the world to rights and deserves to be read by everyone.

Definitely!

To celebrate its publication, I’m having a book launch at Stockport War Memorial Art Gallery on Saturday 9th, from 2-4pm, to which every single person I know or have ever known is invited. (I’m also hosting a free writing workshop beforehand, but I’m sad/happy to report that it’s fully booked.)

MJP have made two of my dreams come true: ‘Publish a book’ has finally been crossed off my bucket list, but a long held desire can now safely be admitted to: when studying A Level English at the local college back in 1998, I came across a video in the library on the sublime poet Grace Nichols. It followed her around as she did various things like readings and visiting interesting places, and there is a moment when she shows her passport at border control, and her occupation is described as ‘poet’. That moment resonated with me, such that I longed to be able describe my own occupation as ‘poet’.

Though I don’t claim to be in the same league as Ms Nichols, from tomorrow, I can.

Author copies! Did you know they give you some for free??

The book is lighthearted and accessible, especially to those with no interest in poetry.

I’m offering a free copy to the person who leaves the best menopause joke in the comments (closing date February 28th 2019). I’ll post to anywhere in the world. The Hub will judge, for two reasons: it’s fun to make him squirm; and he is notorious for barely cracking a smile at what I think is hilarious. If you can make him laugh, you win.

Finally, a taster: here’s the title poem:

Flushed Away

To My Children: I’d tell you to stop reading now but one day you’ll have menopausal wives and I want you to be understanding husbands, like your father, so have at it.

I have gone from being peri-menopausal to very menopausal, and last Sunday I had to leave church halfway through the service because I had one hot flush after another; so many that I was sweating bobbers, as we say here oop north.

Aside:

What is a bobber?

According to Google:

bobber
ˈbɒbə/Submit
noun
1.
a person who rides on a bobsleigh.
2.
a float used in angling.

So, the menopause is causing elite sportsmen in weird clothing to cascade down my person?  Sounds fishy to me; and not at all the sort of thing I want to be bothered with in the middle of a woman-made heatwave.

Back to my story: there I was, sweating for Africa, even though our usual British summer plays more like an African winter – or a British winter, come to that: central heating on in June?  Go for it.

I was feeling ill and extremely ill tempered; so I left church.  I’m afraid the menopause is going to make me an atheist.

I know they call it ‘the change’ but that isn’t the kind of change I expected.

I have to tell you – hot flushes…I’m not a fan.  Though I’m thinking of investing in a fan.  Maybe even a fan company.  Or an air conditioning company; or an ice company.  I’m surprised these companies aren’t all run by women of a certain age.  My age.

Trust me, we don’t need to worry about a New Ice Age: just put a bunch of menopausal women at the front of the line, give ’em a cup of tea, and let ’em have at nature.

And then bring on the HRT.  Please!

 

I Stink Like Joey Tribbiani

Image from tumblr*

*Don’t those people know how to spell?

I have reached a point in my life – boys, you may want to look away now – when <whisper it> certain changes have begun to happen.

They are not particularly pleasant, though some make the men in my house run for cover, but they are not, so far, too dreadful.

Apart from one thing, which no one ever told me might happen (everyone run for cover now) – I stink.  I stink like Joey Tribbiani after three days’ fishing, no showers, fifteen hours’ sleep-catch-up in his clothes (I’m re-watching Friends).  I stink so bad, Charlton Heston offered me the use of his shower.

Friends (real friends; not fictional ones.  I’m menopausal, not crazy.  Though I’ve heard it’s hard for husbands to tell the difference) give me empathy and advice; my family give me a wide berth; Dictionary.com weighed in with today’s Word of the Day to explain what’s happening: it’s called hyperhidrosis, aka excessive sweating (I accidentally typed ‘excessive seating’.  I hear weight gain is another symptom).

But here’s the weird part – I only sweat in ONE ARMPIT.  I only stink in one armpit.

What’s that about?

The same armpit also burns in a mild way when I apply deodorant; though that may come from rubbing the pit raw in an effort to remove the stench.

Only half my body is affected by the change.  Is that why they call it perimenopause?

Male readers, I suggest you unsubscribe now.  The next five years are not going to be pretty.  And it’s all your fault.  Take the Hub with you while you’re at it.  

He’s begging you.

 

Joke 837

Overheard at the Garden Cafe Nectar Bar (Photo credit: Graela)

Q: What’s the difference between a pit bull and a woman in menopause?

A: Lipstick

*

Q: What’s 10 times worse than a woman in menopause?

A: Two women in menopause.

*

Q: Which is scarier, a puppy or a rational woman in menopause?

A: A puppy, because a rational woman in menopause doesn’t really exist.

*

Q: What’s the quickest way for a man to end up sleeping on the couch?

A: Forgetting to erase his internet history after reading menopause jokes…

*

From jokes4us.

 

Joke 147

This one is courtesy of Sarsm.

The Hormone Hostage

The Hormone Hostage knows that there are days in the month when all a man has to do is open his mouth to take his life into his hands. 

DANGEROUS: What’s for dinner?
SAFER: Can I help you with dinner?
SAFEST: Where would you like to go for dinner?
ULTRASAFE: Here, have some chocolate.

DANGEROUS: Are you wearing that?
SAFER: Gee, you look good in brown.
SAFEST: WOW! Look at you!
ULTRASAFE: Here, have some chocolate.

DANGEROUS: What are you so worked up about?
SAFER: Could we be overreacting?
SAFEST: Here’s fifty dollars.
ULTRASAFE: Here, have some chocolate.

DANGEROUS: Should you be eating that?
SAFER: You know, there are a lot of apples left.
SAFEST: Can I get you a glass of wine with that?
ULTRASAFE: Here, have some chocolate.

DANGEROUS: What did you do all day?
SAFER: I hope you didn’t overdo it today.
SAFEST: I’ve always loved you in that robe!
ULTRASAFE: Here, have some more chocolate.

And remember: Money talks…but chocolate sings.

You’re Only As Old As The Woman You Feel

As a result of today’s Thought For The Day, the poor Hub has just discovered he is middle-aged…I have had my first night sweat. It was like waking up in a fridge of watery vaseline (ah, that takes me back a few years). Unpleasant but bearable. Roll on hot flushes! I’m a man; I can take it.

One consequence of the onset of old age is that it has given me more empathy for my husband. In spite of being a man and younger than me, he has been suffering night sweats for the past fourteen years. Night sweats, day sweats, hot sweats, cold sweats (there’s a poem in there somewhere) – all have plagued him as symptoms of his CFS/ME. I have washed his sweaty clothes and sympathised but until yesterday I had never truly appreciated how horrible they are to experience.

I’m not great on empathy, I must admit; particularly when it comes to mothers mistreating – as I see it – their children. I never got the feminist position on Sylvia Plath, for example, that it was okay to commit suicide by gassing herself because she put food in the children’s cot and wet towels to seal the doors. How positively caring of her. Never mind that they might not have been found for days or they could have been accidentally blown up; and what about the long-term consequences of knowing that your mother preferred to kill herself than care for you? I know she suffered severe depression and I’m not knocking the effects of that awful illness, but I just cannot imagine any circumstance in which I would choose death over the well-being of my children.

Which brings me to the real issue of today’s blog, because I cannot avoid it any longer: the ‘not guilty’ verdict on Bridget Kathleen [Kay] Gilderdale, the mother who assisted in her daughter’s suicide. Her daughter Lynn had CFS/ME; was paralysed by it; had to be fed through a tube; and could only communicate by sign language. Mrs Gilderdale cared for her daughter round-the-clock for seventeen years and watched her waste away. I can’t begin to imagine how terrible that must have been for her. My husband has severe symptoms that are getting slowly but steadily worse, but he can still walk, eat and drive. He can talk to me, shout to me, rage at me and reach over to kiss me. Yes, he does it all in great pain and through gritted teeth (especially the kissing part, but that might be a consequence of my bad breath), and there are days and sometimes weeks when he can’t do any of those things and must stay in bed, but I cannot yet envision a time when he begs me for help to end his suffering.

Inevitably, the question must occur to those who live with people with long-term health issues: would I kill a person I love if they asked me to? My own answer is ‘no’ – at the moment. But I have not walked in Mrs Gilderdale’s shoes. What would I do if my husband was so incapacitated that he had to rely on me for everything? We have discussed it before and he would not want to live like that. Do I love my husband enough to kill him? I honestly don’t know. I hope so. I hope not. My faith tells me that murder is wrong; is mercy killing murder? The jury in this case say not; the jury last week in the case of Frances Inglis said it was. The law is undecided.

How much love Mrs Gilderdale must have for her daughter to take such a step, knowing that she would probably go to jail; but she could not refuse her daughter’s plea, no matter the cost to herself; and here I mean Lynn’s death. I cannot imagine anything worse happening in my life than the death of one of my children. I feel physically sick just writing about it. Think how it must feel knowing you caused it.

I never really understood the lyrics of a Jim Steinman song until now: I would do anything for love but I won’t do that. Am I selfish to put my own feelings first? I think I probably am. I can only sadly admire Mrs Gilderdale’s love and courage and pray that I never have to find out if I have it too.

About ME

Feeling tons better tonight. Thanks to Melanie and Abraham Lincoln for your good wishes. It gives me a frisson of pleasure to say thanks to Honest Abe: I am fascinated by American politics and presidents. I think it started back in the Eighties when I watched a mini-series about Theodore Roosevelt, and I know it became a part-time passion when I started watching The West Wing; and last year’s race for the Democratic nomination was truly exciting. I just hope President Obama’s hype is more than that. Not sure about that dancing on Ellen, though….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsWpvkLCvu4

I don’t know where my headache came from because I’m not prone to them and can usually ignore them; but this one had me flat on my back for almost 24 hours. My friend suggested it might be hormonal. Given that I’m a woman of a certain age, it’s a possibility. The last time I remember being so bad, I had not long given birth to Tory Boy. Or maybe it’s just my age: the Hub suffers migraines, but he hasn’t given birth to any children that I’m aware of.

The Hub’s migraines are connected to his CFS/ME, of course. He became ill with it in 1996. It isn’t life-threatening, but it is a life killer. Forget any hope of going back to your pre-CFS existence: it ain’t gonna happen. The prognosis for it is anything from six months to the rest of your life, with the average being ten years. Once he got to six years with it we started hoping he was average, but it’s going on for thirteen and he’s getting slowly but progressively worse. We’ve accepted – grudgingly – that he will never be well enough to work again, and that we will never go back to our pre-CFS life, but that makes it oddly easier to go on. Once you can accept your life has changed forever and that five-year plans are a waste of time (just ask Stalin), you can get on with it.

My next five minutes plan is a hot bath and cup of Earl Grey (decaf, naturally), then bed. It won’t pay the bills, but it’s about as perfect a plan as there is, as far as I’m concerned.

Sweet dreams!