Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Review of New Toy: Vibrator

I looked in the Amazon delivery queue and saw Gary bought me a surprise gift.

FLAPPING G SPOT VIBRATOR FOR WOMEN “LAYLA” ADULT RABBIT SEX TOYS WITH 9 FLAPPING MODES 4 TICKLING MODES WATERPROOF CLITORALIS [sic] STIMULATOR FOR CLIT (sure) NIPPLE ('kay) ANAL (nope) STIMULATION RECHARGEABLE ADULT SEX TOYS

And then I looked at the photo and saw a vibrator designed by a committee.

If this were a horror movie that vibrator would whimper, "Kill me."

This is the silicone version of what would happen if a Bop-It and a Swiss army knife and Barney the dinosaur had a baby and it grew up to be a “CLITORALIS” ANAL STIMULATOR.

This isn’t really a review because, while I cycled through all the tickling and flapping modes, I haven't used it. It scares me. Especially the G-spot flapper. Picture a drum stick playing a relentless paradiddle on your bladder. Not your G-spot, your BLADDER. The only place I could see using this device is in the parking lot of the Urgent Care. I would get an infection even if I were bolstered by the preventative antibiotics.

I mean, it was reviewed well: maybe it is life-changing, but I don't think I can bring myself to even try it. 

Reddit Point of View

I don’t remember what Google search and Reddit path took me there, but I spent an hour reading a Reddit thread on whether or not men talk about sex when they talk with each other. And, huh, they do NOT. And on the rare occasions one of the pack does, the others say “ew, gross,” and swat at him.

You would think I could confirm this with my husband, but I know he doesn’t talk about our sex life with his friends because like many men I know he has no friends. 

Some people surmised that men tend to tease each other about perceived weaknesses, so they don’t like to expose vulnerabilities. Or, perhaps if a man spoke about great marital sex then he might worry that his friends would try to pursue his wife. 

Ultimately, though, they feel it is too personal, especially when it is about a significant relationship. I can’t relate to this at all. Too personal? Well, I suppose even though I would spill all my business I would hesitate to divulge personal information about my partner.

I know. They think about it but they don’t talk about it. As a recently recovering 20-year-old guy, this surprises me. And it doesn't seem healthy. 

Current State of the Twenty Year Old Male Living in Me

Ladies, read on if you are curious to know what my libido has been up to, given that when last spotted a doctor had determined it might be a reaction to my brother's death, and I determined it might be a reaction to my own death. I can give you an update.

Intrusive thoughts? Yes. Obsessive, intrusive thoughts. Not the jumble, more focused, but intrusive thoughts nonetheless. Every evening I close my eyes and give myself over to the intrusive thoughts. I can't focus on anything else. 

Doing anything but thinking about the intrusive thoughts? Nope. Not a damn thing. Well, maybe once a week. 

I suppose that's the opposite of how it came on, mental then physical, so that's how it leaves, physical then mental.

Woman Cave

Yesterday I was talking with Gary about my anatomy. Specifically, my female anatomy. Yes it's another post about my pelvic floor, which is still rattling away, and yesterday it was particularly active.

I didn't even get a chance to tell him what I wanted, which was a little digital spelunking, just so he could tell me if what I sensed had any bearing on what was physically happening. None of that happened because he felt he had to argue with me about my vagina. To mansplain my anatomy to me. Without actually touching me, mind you. Just telling me from memory. 

"It's like there's the bone, then you go around the bend and it's like there's a covered area --" He arched his hand to show the covered area. 

"So that's the pelvic floor, then," I said. 

"No, there's no floor. It's just on one side, like a wall and a ceiling but no floor. " 

"But that has to be either the outer or inner set of muscles -- "

"No, listen to me. You have no idea what you're talking about. I've been in there -- " 

And as you can imagine, the conversation stopped there. 

So I was off to find a chart so we could have a civil conversation about my parts. 

And I am sure you are saying, Ellen, do you not have fingers? Yes, I do, but they are short and stubby, and there is also a chubby layer of cushion in the way, and the idea of pawing at my interior is a little gross, and it's a little like looking at a map when your sense of direction doesn't match up with what you see. And also I wanted him up in there. 

(I was fascinated to see there are shiny metal screws holding me together.)

At first I found myself really wanting a rotating 3~D image, because that image above doesn't show the gap I know I have between the lower muscles and the pelvic floor. And it looks like a child's pelvis: that person's hand could span from hipbone to hipbone. 

And then I realized what I really, really want is an illuminated go-pro I could snake up in there. Or else a video of what it would look like in there, like a Curse of Oak Island video. Or like a colonoscopy video. 

So I looked up vaginoscopy, and it's a real thing, and now I am even more confused. And it's done often on dogs and children, not full grown women. And when it is it is not a guided tour like you would have in Meremac Caverns. "Here is the Mirror Room, now we'll pass through the Pelvic Floor and enter the Wine Room," etc. 

Then a visit to Amazon for a look at plastic pelvic models, and it appears that is what I was looking at above. None of those things gave me any clarity. My parts don't feel like what I see there.

Also, this all took too long and Gary fell asleep anyway. It all made me long for first days in puberty when I crouched over the mirror in my bedroom. So simple then. 

Portrait of the Blogger as ... etc. Continued.

A voiceover announces: "Previously seen on this blog," followed by images of:

• Me admiring the men at the opening of opera season, chatting up SalmonPants, my pelvis spinning me in a circle when a tuxedo walks by.
• Me, breathing, glassy-eyed, staring into space.
• A closed door and a buzzing noise.
• French President Emmanuel Macron.
• And finally me, coughing, relieved that the parainfluenza virus has tamped down the overactive sex drive to a manageable degree. 

And I think that's where I was two weeks ago. And now? Cough is better, suspected bladder infection is again tested and found to be nothing, health is improving, so my libido is back up at peak performance and I am again spending a ridiculous amount of time on my new favorite hobby.

If I couldn't feel the spasms I'd think it was mania. (I'm still dogged by that label, even if it's dropped off my record.) And I've been experimenting with the anti-spasm meds; it seems they are somehow able to just target the bladder cells. Good? Bad? I don't know.

It's just peculiar. I'm not that mad about it. It's just cruel this would hit me just as that part of my life is supposed to be winding down, and there's not much I can do.

So Not Fair

Have you seen this commercial?

She had eight UTIs in one year? Other people might say, "Dude, get off of her." Whereas I say, "Girl! You had sex eight times in one year? Jealous."

And now that this pelvic floor tension has led to a cruel coupling of reduced capacity and heightened interest, I have made some selfish one-sided demands of my husband: investigative acts that most lovers leave behind in junior high school. Regrettably, even Finger Bang Fridays lead to Infected Bladder Saturdays. 

So here I am, again punished by God for having sexual urges. And for not emptying my bladder completely, as if I have a say in that. And for jostling about my internal organs too enthusiastically.

And to God I say, "Worth it," because it was.

Birthday Week

In about a week I will have my 61st birthday. 

Many people do not know this, but at 61 years a women's images are automatically withdrawn from any spank banks where even a partial memory might be stored.

(Not Spunky's image, though. Spunky is immortal, like Sophia Loren and Cher. If you have a mental image of Spunky, rest assured it will not be deleted. Enjoy, toe porn enthusiasts.)

The only thing that encourages me lately on that front is that I suspect sexual appeal is in part about how attractive you are and in part about how reactive you are, and I am nothing if not reactive. Finally, a benefit to having a face that can't keep a secret.

But of course thoughts like that are all moot. Such things are over, because it seems I am Wife more than Woman, and I will stay true to my almost-seventy year old husband. I have out-Peneloped Penelope now, and I can't change my nature.

Maybe this sexual renaissance pulsing-pelvis nonsense will settle down and I can go back to not thinking about it.

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: Over?

I have not fluttered for three straight days. Can it be over? Have the spasms been quelled? 

I don't feel the constant pulse anymore. Now it's an intermittent pulse.

I am still unable to concentrate. Distraction was the first symptom to appear, so I suppose it's the last to go. 

The question, I suppose, will be: how do I react when I see men in person? 

Revenge

By process of elimination, the big love language over here is Acts of Service, and I cashed in an Acts of Service card the other day. Gary was in my room and I asked him to get my earbuds out of the table by the bed. I could have done it, but I would have had to lean. (I cannot tell you how many times I have fetched Gary's remote because he doesn't want to lean.)

I was still laughing about my ridiculous request when he reached into the wrong drawer and pulled out the New Sex Toy instead.

He stared at it long enough for me to add, "Not that. The earbuds."

He held my gaze as he dropped New Sex Toy in the trashcan. 

Vengeance. Funny, pointed vengeance. I don't know what he was angry about: my lazy demand for the earbuds or if he's jealous. Either way, funny.

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: Perspective Edition

As you know, I am settling down just a little, in that one day in three is normal. On that day in three, men are mere men. Then for two days Satan occupies my lower torso, and every man looks as good as President Macron to me.

You know who else looks good to me on those days? Me. I know, because I've been staring at my face because I'm editing a video I was in. 

On the 'normal,' non-quivering day, it's an ordeal looking at myself, because I am a monster. But on the other two days, the days everyone else looks tasty, I, too, look tasty.

Take this grainy photo.

On the days I feel like a 60 year old woman, not a 20 year old man, I look at that image and think:

"My face is fat, my eyes are uneven, my hand is too big, my watch makes my wrist look fat, I'm jowly, I look like a man."

But on the days I am a-flutter, and everyone else looks spectacular, I look at that same photo, and think:

"My god, look how hot I am. Look how my wig sets off my eyes. Look at the graceful way my face is resting on my hand. Look at my narrow shoulders and my sly half-smile."

So, it's nice that I can use take my 20 year old male gaze and turn it on myself. I wish I could do that every single day, not just two out of three.

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: Toy Review

Sex toy review. Because we haven't done that for a while.

So with this new increase in activity I was genuinely concerned about damaging my favorite body part. Worried I was wearing it down from a nub into a nothing. That's why I decided to try this Puff device, which employs a pull technique instead of a push. I suppose it uses a tiny, tiny vacuum? Like the box says, "This sucks." 

Pros: pull technique.

Cons: pull technique.

Picture a person employing the pull technique on you. Great. Kudos. Now picture this is the only technique they have. And they are relentless. Yes, they have five speeds, but still, one relentless move which they will not abandon. 

To be fair, I've used it four times, and I learned some techniques I can use to shake things up. It takes a little more skill with positioning than the old standbys. I have to put some effort into it. (Supposedly this model is the most ergonomic and easy to use.)

Still, would recommend. 

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: Porn Twin

Porn (ethically-sourced, consensual and lord-so-out-of-character porn) seems to have odd effects on me. If it isn't making me sleepy from the repetition, it makes me nostalgic. "I remember that," I think,  "I remember doing that back in the day." 

I began to notice that one particular male porn star made me ... extra nostalgic.

"What is his appeal," I wondered, as I used the site tags to find all his videos.

And then I saw him make one particular move, and I said, "Oh, that's it. Gary did that same move. I love that move."

And now I have seen all of PornoDoppleganger's videos now, and I've told Gary he has porn star moves ("You mean porn stars have my moves.") 

And it's not just The Move, I noticed a few other similarities, and I bet you want to know which porn star now, don't you? Hah. Not a chance. I'll tell you anything about me, but that intimate peek at Gary is just going too far.

Limits. I have them! Not about me, about other people, but I have them.

Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man: Freaky Friday Sunday

I am sorry to keep going on about this, but I feel obliged to share my experience now that I am living the plot of Freaky Friday. Only I'm not swapping bodies with my mom, but with the horniest 20 year old guy who ever horned. (You know, any time I thought of people with MS taking anti-spasmodic meds, I always thought their calves or arms were in spasm, not the tops of their reproductive systems down to the bottoms. This was absolutely not what I expected.)

This body-swap makes me want to go back in time and say to my teenage self, "Hey, remember when I came back that one time before to advise you that that arousing a teenage boy is not an remarkable accomplishment, and it doesn't mean he loves you? Well, I have more details. You aren't even part of the arousal process. You happen to be the woman in the room with him when he gets aroused because a change in barometric pressure triggers him -- on the off chance he isn't excited already. You've probably never been the catalyst that aroused any one, just the bystander."

(Well, unless you are French President Macron. Just as I typed the above nonsense he was on CNN at 2:30 p.m. Sunday afternoon. I noticed his hair has a touch of gold that complements his French blue eyes, and I made an involuntary guttural sound. If he winked at me I would collapse.)

And just as I typed that last, at 2:33, the drumbeat of desire stopped, and didn't start up again until ... 2:38. I did nothing with the five minute respite I had before the images began again, and then we were back to the chaos of body parts, and faces (hello, Emmanuel), and memories of being kissed. Such a contrast to a few months ago when I was a woman, when fantasies had plots and locales and perfectly selected costumes. Now there isn't even clever dialog, for god's sake.

One more word for my teenage self: if anyone calls you a tease, just leave. You have nothing to do with it.

Urologist Visit

I have been to this urologist before, in 2011, and the tests were rigorous waterboarding tests in which I was pumped full of fluids and asked to Kegel as if my life depended on it.

I did some quick Kegels out in the parking lot, just to warm up, and went in ready for the same routine. It started off with an easy ultrasound to see if I had any leftovers after I gave my sample. Mere teaspoons! A good start.

I was ready to be pumped full of fluid, but, because I came in armed with my existing high-tone pelvic floor diagnosis, and shared my sexual symptoms, we skipped right over any other tests. As I find so often with doctors, the answer is evident.

"Spasms," he said. "Everything is in spasm." Pelvic floor is not just clenched now but spasming, plus spastic bladder, spastic colon, and I can think of no better descriptor for my reproductive system that has been all a-flutter as of late. And then here I am adding in bonus spasms with all the orgasms, which makes everything spasm synchronously, so there's a lot of cleanup on aisle number one. 

So, with so many things making my abdomen rattle like Jiffy-Pop on a hot stove, there are a number of paths forward. 

• One, we could go back and have the biofeedback. Or as I called it, "biofeedback"-while-twisting-my-index-finger-upward to suggest the therapist's internal massage. (He threw in the up-finger gesture too the next time he mentioned it.) 
• Two, we could do bladder botox, which I would totally be up for, to relax the spasming muscle surrounding the bladder. Less leakage, lasts six months. Intriguing.
• Three, we could try pills to relax the same bladder muscle. "What do they cost," I asked, given that I recently spent hundreds on a bladder medication that didn't do a thing. Turns out the pills (Oxybutynin) are a cheaper, newer formula for Vesicare. Luckily I don't drink caffeine anymore, or I'd be more susceptible to the most notable side effect: hallucinations. 

It will only relax my bladder muscle, and I suppose my colon and reproductive system will just continue to jostle and bounce off my high tone pelvic floor like it's a trampoline.

So I see him again in three months. We shall see. I took a dose last night and it got me two extra hours of sleep. A good start.

TWIL: What it's Like

Gary didn't feel I should tell the urologist about my amped-up sex drive, but I thought it was germane.

That's how I presented it to the doctor. "So, since I made the appointment, I have a new symptom. Stop me if it's not germane, but ..." 

And then I looked him in the eye, but then I looked off to the side, and said, "... I usually just masturbate twice a month, and now it's twice a day." Then I looked at him again.

He said, "Soooo ... congratulations?" 

"No, it's awful. I think about every man I see. I can't get any work done. My company is still paying me but I'm so unproductive. It's wrong."

He leaned back and said happily, "You're a twenty year old guy!" He said it in a way that also expressed, "Finally, a woman knows what it feels like to be a twenty year old guy."

So, this week I learned what it's like to be a twenty year old guy. And if anyone is out there reading this who survived being a twenty year old guy, I salute you. Hats off to you, gentlemen. I don't know how you functioned in society. I'm sure it was hard. 

Tomorrow: the rest of the visit.

Rough

It's Sex Week here on the old blog. Yet another post about my current preoccupation. And really, I'm sorry. Because this time it's about porn. 

I think we all know the tradeoff between frequency and speed when it comes to a person's alone time. Now that I'm only giving myself mere hours of recovery time instead of weeks, it's just taking too much time, so I have turned to porn to move things along, for God's sake.

This is nice ladylike porn. "Porn by women" is the tag line. No really weird stuff. Lots of kissy stuff. Slow kissy stuff. Really really slow kissy stuff.

"Oh my god," I thought. "Pick up the pace."  Click. Ah, there are different categories. I bounced around the categories. Slow threesomes. Slow hot guys. 

However, The "Rough" category seemed -- at first -- to have a reasonable tempo. In fact, it all seemed very familiar. Women are repositioned, rotated, tossed in the air like pizza dough. You know. What I would call "sex."

"GARY!" I bellowed. "WHY DOES THE INTERNET SAY WE HAVE 'ROUGH' SEX?"

He just came into the room, head low in shame, then he pantomimed some rough sex and scuttled away.

So, who knew? I didn't. I don't have any other all-out lover for comparison purposes. I suppose Gary and I started out slow, with negotiations and polite requests, then we just transitioned into the soft version of the rough category. Wouldn't it be awful if I visited some crazy place like PornHub and found out that there's an arcane category for something else he's convinced me is normal? 

Increasingly Increasing

Since Monday's post, in which I detailed my suffering under the invisible leash that Satan has tethered to my pelvis, things have become worse.

One day my new twice-a-day habit failed to satisfy, and I bumped it up to thrice, and even so, I woke up from a bonus sex dream afterward. (It involved a gorgeous sienna satin ball gown that got very messy.) 

Clearly, I thought, urges beget urges, so I spent the next day denying myself. At the end of the day my palms were sweaty, my heart raced, and I lay in bed for an hour and just panted. But I persevered. I occupied myself planning for next week's visit to the urologist.

I wondered, "Haven't I complained about the incontinence before now? Didn't I go to the urologist before now? What happened with that?" 

Some research on this blog reminded me of an experience I had almost entirely forgotten: my visit to the physical therapist to resolve my previous incontinence issue.

I think I might be having another recurrence of the high-tone pelvic floor problem above, which, amazingly, I had almost completely forgotten. I don't know how it ties in to my increased drives, but it seems that if the floor is on high alert the rest would be affected as well.

We will find out later this week.

Increase

I am documenting here a change in the symptoms I have suffered as of late, so that later when I am diagnosed with a brain tumor I can point back to this post as the early signs of deterioration.

My appetites have now spread from my upper abdomen to my lower, specifically the region from my ovaries down to my labia. My brain gets constant pudendal messages that the blood level in that area is up to a degree that cannot be sustained. I can feel every corpuscle fluttering and pulsing. Habits that could be satisfied twice a month now demand my attention twice a day. Twice a day. Twice. If not, I find that there will be something like a yawn in my lower body that suddenly arcs my back and twists my hips toward whatever has provoked me.  

On the other hand, I can be assured this isn't happening.

High Maintenance Spunky

Spunky Labia, International Foot Porn Superstar, had complaints.

"Appendage!" she cried, "You have not serviced me with a foot peel since before the pandemic!"

"You didn't seem to need one." I answered.

"I AM HIDEOUS."

"Oh, all right. We still have two of them."

I applied a foot peel and followed all the directions. A week later there had been some progress but not the reptilian shedding as before.

"Check the expiration date!" she demanded. And Spunky was right, the foot peel had expired last month.  She felt bad, and to please her I had to buy the most expensive foot peel, and for once the men's version of a product was the more expensive one. 

So next week expect Spunky to man up with this. extra-large, extra-strength foot peel for men.

Spunky: "BRING IT!" 

Gary: "No, it will hurt your toes!"

I seriously doubt it will hurt. Perhaps they add an astringent that might dupe some into thinking it's working, and it might tingle, but that's all.

Spunky is tapping her toes impatiently. 

Cats In the Night

It was dark, and I was in the closet looking for my sweatpants, and when I realized my pink sweatpants looked just like my grey sweatpants, I thought, "At night, all pants are grey."

And then, "What is that from? Oh, 'At night, all cats are grey.' But ... what is that from?"  And then, "Oh look, the Internet."

I learned two things:

In America, the phrase is actually "All cats are grey in the dark." I can't imagine why, it's one word longer with no iambic pentameter.

But in France the phrase is "La nuit, tous les chats sont gris." Translated, that is the phrase I know, only:

•     Equally overly long
•     No meter of any kind
•     Dirty

(Dirty, because of pussycats. And yet why? I don't know what kind of fancy vulvas they have in France, or if they've got a French cat version of a wire-haired terrier, but I don't see the cat-crotch connection.)

Of course I couldn't remember the last time I said "At night all cats are grey," but I imagine I was talking to all the department managers when I said the equivalent of, "Who cares, pussy is pussy."

Spunky Mourns Her Fallen Star

There was a time, sixteen years ago, when Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar, came into this world when I looked at my Google searches and discovered a fair number of men from foreign countries got here searching for "toe porn". 

I visited my Google searches recently and was curious to see what my lowest search term is. The search that is least popular, even below "snaggly whiplash" (brother of Snidely Whiplash?) and "toilet brush scat," is "toe porn." It has 0 clicks and only 1 time it was even viewed on a page with other Google results. 

I feel I need to comfort Spunky by doing a retrospective of her youth. Too many Spunky references to list them all, but here is the Nascent Spunky.

The first reference

She is yet unnamed

She poses

Still amazed by the toe porn searches

Yet another Google search gives her a name

 

 

Tucks

My crotch affliction is back AGAIN. The lower parts have definitely thinned and rusted to the degree that they are just intermittently tender, sore, and a touch ... gory.

I have eschewed the rough toilet paper and tried all the creams and unguents in the house. I even tried the Monistat 7, which took me down a rabbit hole while I researched what could cause bubbles in one's urine, and by using the scientific method I can say -- decisively -- Monistat 7 will make your urine bubbly. Not your thyroid, or proteinuria, or other alarming  things you may have Googled. 

However, because none of the ointments dealt with the problem, I began poking around in the backs of drawers and found that when I stocked the health larder one thing I bought in preparation for the future was an item called "Tucks."

I heard of them from a commercial that was too vague to say, "THIS IS FOR HEMORRHOIDS," just that they were for relief of rump itching and unpleasantness, and who among us has not been struck by that? 

I figured all the nether holes must be made of the same essential tissue, so why not open the tidy little tub and take out one of these damp circles and poke it up in my lady hole?

This is why: because Tucks are tucking COLD. As cold as witchcraft, frozen nitrogen, dry ice. Cold.

"What is in this stuff," I yelped, and found there is only one active ingredient: witch-hazel. (Witches, there you go. Cold as a witch's crotch.)

That was this morning. Now that I know to expect, the popsicle-in-the-crotch numbing effect is not the surprise it was before. It's actually kind of nice. And I think it might be helping. I'll give it a week and I'm sure things will have improved by then. No doubt the pudenda would improve on its own, and the pads are just a placebo. Don't care. I like placebos. 

Lady Garden Blight Returns

My affliction is back, despite a respite of almost half a decade. The labia is again weeping blood from the outside, not the inside. (See here. In fact you should see here, because that post-menopausal post from five years ago sums up my attitude today.)

Since my reproductive hormones have utterly shut down now, I would have thought that would be the end of my pudenda problems. But, actually, it's comforting, since I know I can write off endometriosis or hormonal fluctuations as a cause for the spontaneous labial bleeding.

It's probably been an infected ingrown hair, only ... there's no hair there on the inner lady curtain. Or perhaps there is, only they are small. I have fuzzy hairs everywhere else now, why not.

Really, that's should be my attitude about the entire crotch issue. All the emotional attachment to my labia is gone now that I am 'paused. Do what you want, crotch: spontaneously bleed, spout glitter, rub together and make sounds like Cuban diplomatic crickets. Over. It.

First

My great grandmother was the first person killed by an automobile in Marion Ohio. And so it began: technology tasted blood, and our blood was the tastiest.

Technology has not killed me, but I think I am the first person ... well, on my block at least ... to develop a remote-controlled bladder infection.

And, yes, I got this bladder infection the same way I get all my bladder infections: something inside my vagina aggravating the fetid puddle of pee that pools in the bottom of my bladder. 

As you have surmised, Gary bought "us" a remote-controlled app-driven vibrator. (This one right here,) It combines his love of his iPad with his love for me, and his need to give me bladder infections - even without laying a finger on me, this time. (He just used his finger to control the device by scribbling on the iPad. The power!)

Come to think of it, he didn't touch me OR even look at me, since he was invested in the software. His nerdiness excites me. Since the narrow pink antenna visibly ... protrudes, I came over and slapped him in the face with the antenna a few times.

This how it shall be in my future. No touching, no looking? No problem.

By the way, I know, I know, similar devices are sending private usage information back to their motherships and plotting with the microwave. And of course, if anyone tried to "hi-jack" it they'd have to do it while it was turned on and Gary and I were using it. We'd just write it off to Roomba wireless interference or the Tivo or any other wiretapping device we have. Actually, given our computer backgrounds we'd have more fun debugging it.

Edited to add: I got out of bed later and found Hal the skeleton greeting me.

Edited to add: Mr. Skeleton (Not Safe for Work) got more sweet words than I got.
.

Friday Freakout: The Last One?

No episode of hysteria for a month. The psychiatrist did call me back Monday and left an incomprensible ten second message. It was background noise and the end of a conversation he had with someone else. I called back, didn't reach him, and didn't leave a message.

Gary was as trying as he could be yesterday, yelling at the television, yelling at me, and I stayed calm.

Clearly the recent diagnosis and my intention to do something about it has whipped my emotional stability right into line.

 

Friday Freakout: Red Light Edition

It has been a week without tears, or mood swings, or arguments with Gary. Well, there was one argument with Gary Friday night, and it was notable how calm I stayed.

We went out for miniature golf, of all things, which was some degree of fun. There are no rules when we play miniature golf, and we don't keep score. My god, if my father knew I married a man who didn't play scrupulously by the rules ... every board game we owned had the rules circled in red and special house rules annotated by my father:

• The LOSER will be responsible for putting away the game.
• THE LOSER refer to the winner as 'THE WINNAH!'
• THESE ARE THE RULES.

After the game, I took his ass to Red Lobster, and when the waiter asked if we were there for a special occasion, I refrained from cheerfully answering "Because I slay!"  I really wanted to ask how many people a day give the full Beyonce excuse for going to Red Lobster, but I did not.

Afterward, we were waiting at a red light when some other light changed, Gary saw other people moving, so he started to drive through the red light.

"RED LIGHT!" I screamed.

He slammed on the breaks, and then clutched his chest and yelled, "Don't scream! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

And then he went on ... and on ... and on. I calmly suggested that he might have yelled the same way I did had our roles been reversed. He might even yelled as loudly as he was yelling now.

I didn't cry. I didn't escalate. It was nice. It was like old times.

This is clearly some subconscious reaction to my decision to get medical or therapeutic assistance.

 

Friday Freakout: Radio Silence Edition

I decided that it would be wrong to bypass the psychiatrist's opinion, so before I go see a counselor I'm going to visit him. I left a message Thursday afternoon, but I haven't heard back.

My mood has been elevated by earrings and wildlife.

Earrings:

I plan to wear these on days I wake up cranky.

Wildlife:

Switching the peanuts out for a peanut / lamb and rice dog food concoction has proved to be very popular.

It has also brought in a new friend ...

Soon we will have wolves at our door. Literally. And figuratively, if I don't stop buying earrings. (That's a joke. I'm not maniacally buying earrings. )

Friday freakout: Are You F'ing Kidding Me?

I summoned up the courage to see the nurse practitioner at the gynecologist.

I described my symptoms: hormonal rages, mood swings, etc.

Her next words were, "So I see you're bipolar."

Sigh. You know, I've never really bought into this bi-polar diagnosis.

The first person to tag me with it was my neurologist, based on my risky roller-coaster behavior. Then I heard it from the psychiatrist, and he should know, right? But then he backed off.

And then when I saw it again on the general physician's chart, I noticed it said bi-polar N.O.S., or "Not Otherwise Specified," which evidently means, "Probably bi-polar but she doesn't fit the diagnostic requirements ... yet." That was twenty years ago. Granted, if the requirements are depression and hypomania, I did have that one time I felt like I could jog home from the mall. Damnit. One particularly happy night and I'm bi-polar for life.

It can also mean "It looks like you have bipolar disorder but your doctor thinks your symptoms might be caused by drugs, alcohol or a general medical condition (see Ruling Out Other Physical Conditions)", where MS is one of the conditions.

"N.O.S.?" I said hopefully to the nurse practitioner.

"Oh, I know all about the different types," she said sympathetically. Then she recommended counseling, which I am going to take full advantage of, as soon as I can pick up the phone to call someone without crying.

I was encouraged when she ran her diagnosis past the gynecologist, who recommended I get a blood test to be sure I'm post-menopausal, or if my hormones could still be fluctuating.

And the test came back and my follicle-stimulating hormones are at 80 in a range of 16 - 113, solidly menopausal. So, I need to schedule a visit to see the psychiatrist again, go back on the Celexa (or perhaps its less fattening cousin, Lexapro), and as an added bonus I am going to indulge in counseling. I'm thinking of it as a luxury. I need to be counseled in how to deal with injustice. Because seriously, my husband can't find the snow peas and he explodes, but no one tags him as bi-polar. So not fair.

Mammogramma

In a rare moment of adult responsibility I scheduled a mammogram for Friday afternoon. I don't know what my reproductive system will think, a mammogram on Friday and a Pap smear on Monday. I picture my ovaries whispering to each other across my uterus, "Are we coming out of retirement?"

This is my first mammogram in three years. I've had the yearly breast exams, in which my doctor and I politely talk while he pads at my boobies like a cat, but this is the first mammogram since the one that really hurt.

This one did not hurt. Not one bit.

Other high points:

From the moment I stepped into the hospital to the moment I stepped out, the visit took twenty minutes. Granted, the drive there was 45 minutes and the drive back an hour.

There was no wait in the check-in waiting room. At first I didn't recognize the waiting room, since I had confused it with the MRI waiting room. On the way out I was able to tell them the reason it all looked unfamiliar was that I'd never been there more than two minutes.

At the check-in desk I signed up for a 3D breast image. It cost 60 dollars more, but they said it was better for women with dense breasts. I suppose they are still dense, if looser and smaller. (I noted the shrivel texture of my bosom as we flopped them into the device.) At first I thought I'd be getting an image like those 3D baby ultrasounds, but no. It's more like an MRI, where the camera pivots around you and makes photos of "slices."  I had to research this after, because Gary was planning to hang the 3D image in the bathroom.

There was almost no wait in the second waiting room, the one where we all get naked and hang out in our gowns tied in the front.

My back was turned when the disoriented woman pulled the curtain on my changing room when I was half-naked.

A nice lady helped me figure out the cappuccino / cocoa machine. I was summoned to the exam room even before the cocoa finished dispensing, but they waited and I sipped cocoa during my exam.

The nurse must have noticed my weight change, since she asked me what I weighed at my last mammogram before she asked what my weight was today.

Not a bad experience at all. I could do that yearly. I feel that I should go on Yelp and give the Barnes-Jewish fifth floor Mammography suite a five-star review.

Friday Freakout: I Finally Cave

I see the OB-GYN on Momday morning. Well, his assistant. I truly hope she doesn't have to go poking about up in the sanctuary. They said something about being overdue for a Pap smear. I still have to have smears? Really? Does it ever end?

Friday Freakout late March

Ugh. It seems I fall into tears every single day now. Still, the trigger is always the same: someone else gets emotional, and I'm like a dry bit of brush catching fire from the superheated air.

There was one episode at work that which I was able to control, but I still felt the rage flash. Outside of work, happily, there are only a few people I have to deal with who have the emotional self control of a yappy dog. I need to find a way to avoid the yappy dogs.

Of course, Gary always displays every emotion, and then amplifies every emotion. Tears always flow around Gary, whether it's a new argument or a new twist on old arguments.

I can't really ask the rest of the world to stop expressing their emotions. All right. As of this moment I'm calling the ob-gyn Monday for some hormones.

-----------Moments later:

I just announced my intention to Gary and he asked, "Why? You seem to be doing better."

Friday Freakout: False Hope

Yesterday I was in the car with Gary, and I was thinking how long it had been since my hormones took over and made me into a menopausal monster. A whole week and a half! I decided if I could go a month I could consider myself cured.

I was at peace.

Not twenty seconds later I flipped out because Gary changed into the wrong lane.

Friday Freakout

Today I removed all the staples holding the torn leather on the loveseat, because the loveseat has two issues: the broken down upholstery and the torn leather, and no one works on both. So I have to present the tradesmen with separate issues.

I thought Gary would freak out when he saw the upside down loveseat, but he didn't. He instead bottled it up until he needed a bandaid and they were six inches from where he expected them to be.

But did I lose it, as I now do when he gets emotional?

No I did not. I laughed at him and eventually found the band aids.

Perhaps this is the end of the hysterics. Mine, anyway.

Friday Freakout

This week Gary and I both really lost it on Wednesday, when we were headed to see a tax accountant.

Two things:

1. See a tax accountant. I've spent the last few days amending old tax returns I did with TurboTax. TurboTax deceives you, people. You shut off your brain because you think Ol' T.T. will do all the math for you, and it does not. It does almost all the math, then it doesn't bother to multiply the cost basis by the number of shares sold, and you are too confident in T.T. to check its math.
2. Sometimes it's nice to drive somewhere in a car screaming at each other,  because one of you made assumptions about which Bread Company the tax accountant was waiting in. I felt a little better about my rage, since Gary met me scream for scream.

On the other hand, there was one hysterical outburst this week that had us again considering low-dose hormones. Here's my question: won't the low-dose hormones just delay the problem? I can see taking them to get my mood swings under control, but let's say I take them for five years to pump myself full of the soothing lady hormones. When I get off them, won't I then be with the hormones again and in wild hysterical hormonal mood swings?

Friday Freakout: Bad Week

The theme for the week has been "YES I AM YELLING, GARY, WHAT'S IT LIKE BEING MARRIED TO SOMEONE WHO YELLS?"

Any time Gary complains about my yelling or whining or hysteria, I point out that I'm behaving the way he has behaved the last thirty odd years.

Today, we had to drive separate cars to put the Mini in the shop. (Yes, my rage has abated enough to send the sickly car back to the dealer. I even set foot into the dealership and was far more civil than I expected.) Anyway, I went over the edge when I drove behind him and witnessed him putting on his seat belt on the highway and swerving into the next lane while doing it.

I honked, I screamed, I cried, and of course he was in a different car and didn't notice. So, I pulled in front of him and swerved into the next lane myself. It was dumb. It was also effective. He seemed appropriately horrified.

Of course, I watched him drive very sensibly after that. Sixty miles an hour, just like I always do. Or, just like I always did, because I now understand why he wants to rush me on the highway. People get right up on your tail, then whip around you. It's not safe.

I think another contributor to my crankiness is that I've been doing QA at work. Quality assurance puts me in a critical mindset, because that's the point of QA, to find and pick out every nit. It's been hard to leave the criticism at work.

I need more music, more long drives, and I need to be nicer to my husband.

Friday NonFreakout

No freakouts this week! There have been flashes of anger (always directed at Gary) and one time I started to cry, wanted to cry, and had to nurse it. NURSE it into full tears. I find this very encouraging.

I'm getting better and figuring out what triggers it.

(Hint: Gary. Gary triggers it.)

 

Friday Feast-out

No menopausal freakouts this week. Instead I give you this

... That's as far as I got before Gary commented that I had cooked this pork roast incorrectly! Not done! He did not care that it hit the internal temp and was resting, he claimed he cut into it and he could tell it was not done. This launched outraged screaming, doors slamming, and an interlude of laughter when he said, "NO YOUUU HAVE THE EGO."

So, I cannot even get through a post about my mental stability before losing it.

Friday Freakout: Errands

A few days back I posted about a conversation Gary and I had about getting the Mini fixed.

What I haven't told you about is the conversation from the day before, Tuesday. I had to save that for this week's Friday Freakout. (It occurs to me now that Menopausal Mondays might have been a better choice.)

Anyway, Tuesday evening we had some errands to run. I'd had a fine day at work. Quiet. Productive.

I walked in after work and Gary said, "We have to get the Mini fixed. I tried to drive it today, and it gave off an awful smell."

"Why did you want to drive the Mini? What kind of smell? And we'll get it fixed, just not right now."

"I wanted to visit my parents! It was an exhaust smell! And look here, I researched what a used Mini would cost!" He shoved a printout into my hands.

"Let's talk about this later, Gary. I don't want to think about this now."

After we got in the Honda so we could go buy the squirrels some nuts, he continued, "The used Minis have a one year warranty - "

A little loudly, I said, "Stop it. I love my Mini. I hate the Mini dealer. My Mini is fine. Stop TALKING ABOUT this."

About half a mile down the road he said, "If we got a new car - "

"STOP! IT!"  I could tell I was starting to lose it. I tried to calm myself down by concentrating on my breathing. I concentrated so well I started to hyperventilate and got a little woozy.

After a few minutes of shaky breathing I said, "I'm sorry. I had the working car and you didn't get to see your parents. Did you call your parents instead? How are they?"

He said, "Well, Mom's not feeling well."

I burst into tears. "WAAAAHH Your Mom's sick and I had the car and you couldn't seeeeee heeeeerrrrrr."

I was able to calm down by the time he went into the bird store to pick up the nuts.

When he got back to the car he hesitantly said, "Are you okay now?"

I burst into tears again. "I'm sorry I'm like this now I HATE MYSELF." Sob sob sob.

I sobbed for about three miles before he took a shortcut that led us the wrong way through the McDonald's parking lot. You can't sob and gasp in terror at the same time. Good to know. That's a Life Hack right there.

That episode calmed me down, so that by the time we were done with the Walgreen's drive-through I calmly and pleasantly asked, "So what side effects come with this new cholesterol medication?"

"Uhhhhh ... it says,'increased sensitivity to pain.'"

I burst into tears again. "WAAAAAAHHHHHHH," I wailed, "YOURE GOING TO BE IN MORE PAIN?"

Seriously. This is not acceptable. I'm like Miss Pittipat with the fucking fantods.

Friday Freakout: Nothing!

My mood has been stable. No tears this week. At least, no sobbing. Seven whole days without freaking out!

Friday Freakout

New Policy: Friday posts are devoted to whatever is giving me anxiety this week.

Anxiety, my new friend. I've never been a worrier in the past, but now my new buddy Anxiety sits by me and bothers me allllll the time, and he says things like:

"Oh no. The phone's ringing. Someone has died."  It's just a phone call. In fact, it's a telemarketer, because IT'S ALWAYS A TELEMARKETER.

"Oh no. I have email. It's the rental company calling to tell me Mom's house has been blown away by a tornado." IT IS NEVER A TORNADO.

My Mom was a worrier until she got old. Then she realized none of the things she worried about came true. Instead, other, more horrible things happened, so what was the use of worrying?

I, however, have come to worry late in life. It annoys me. I can't be the delicate princess who gets the fantods whenever the phone rings. 

THIS WEEK'S ANXIETY: The car.

The day after Thanksgiving the SERVICE ENGINE SOON and Dynamic Stability Control lights came on. I called the dealer to make an appointment. They couldn't get me in till December 7th.

Our car stayed at the dealer three days. We would call and hear "We're still diagnosing it." I snorted loudly on the third morning, and later that day we got a call that they couldn't find the problem, so they reset the warning lights and we could pick it up.

When I paid the cashier the $130 (instead of the 4K I was worried it would cost), I noticed she looked at the invoice, and then pointedly said, "If anything goes wrong with your car be sure to call us." I was too relieved I was getting out for $130 to think that anything might go wrong.

Sure enough, ten minutes down the road, SERVICE ENGINE SOON.

I cursed steadily until I got into a parking lot, got on my phone and called the dealership.

"YOU DID NOT FIX MY CAR."

"Ma'am. I'm not familiar with what work was done on you car. I need the invoice number to see what we did."

"NOTHING. YOU DID NOTHING AND CHARGED ME $130 FOR IT."

Before I got home, some Customer Service Wrangler had called to hear the whole story. When I called him back I was still so angry I lost my ability to say simple words like "cashier." It came with a French pronounication. "Cash-e-AY." I don't know what that's all about. But that's how mad I was.

So mad they called back the next day and sweet-talked Gary, and promised us a loaner car, and they'd give our car special attention, and drive the car home themselves personally to their house to see any lights, and not give it back till it was fixed, and bullshit, and et cetera.

Gary had already called Dobbs Auto, who immediately said they couldn't get to anything until after the holidays. You know, as opposed to lying and making appointments they can't keep.

In the past, I would have thought, "My righteous indignation has cowed the dealer. They will now do the professional job they should have done before and charge me a fair amount."

My new friend Anxiety says, "They hate you now, and they lie, so they will take advantage and spit in your wiper fluid and tell you that the transmission is out or whatever the most expensive thing is, and then just buff the exterior and do nothing else. Last time you got that light they said it was the fuel pump. I bet it wasn't the fuel pump at all. They probably set the computer chip to randomly send a SERVICE ENGINE SOON light whenever they want your money."

Happily, we have two cars. And while I could have afforded the car work before Christmas, I can't now, so the car just sits in the garage. I start it up every two weeks, and look balefully at the SERVICE ENGINE SOON light. Hah. "SOON." Sure.