Wednesday was my brother's last night in town so he and I and young M went out to dinner at Thai Basil. It was excellent beyond belief - even my jaded NY brother said it was about the best Thai food he'd ever had. It is not cheap. But it is most delicious. In other news, last night I went to my friend J's screening. She is a filmmaker who does gorgeous stuff and this film, which starred another friend who did a long fast in the woods some years back, was most excellent. It was very cool and fun and I had a good time and felt all artsy and shit, which is always good. Tonight I will be enhancing that artsy feeling by attending the art museum's opening of their paper dress exhibit, for which they requisitioned my lava lamp. Then I'm going to see another friend play music. All good.
Except. (Okay, if you are male and/or squeamish, you may wish to exit here.) It is that time of the month and, good gods almighty, yet again it occurs to me that periods are the single best argument against intelligent design yet. I mean, I'm sorry, but I hate my stupid period. Yes, I like the part where I go, oh yay, dodged the pregnancy bullet again, but that part is only about 15 seconds long and could be accomplished via a simple email from my uterus. The rest of it is cramps and tiredness and my fingers are all fucking swollen so I can't even wear my amethyst ring and my back hurts and I'm not even going to go into the part where I turn into a homicidal/suicidal psychopath for a week or two previous. And I can't go out to the woods because of the bears and I can't swim in the ocean because of the sharks and I can't swim in the Catawba river because of the piranhas and I can't take a bath because of some weird old wives tale that we were earnestly told was untrue in the helpful brochures given to all fifth grade girls in 1976 but probably is true anyway. Those same brochures and the informative folder in the Tampax box tell you to exercise for the cramps but if you exercise you bleed too much and then you'll be walking home from the park leaving a trail of gruesome spots behind you which the dog might lick up, causing utter illness in your soul forever and firing up that old hidden worry about dogs possibly developing a taste for human blood and starting to sneak out at night to chew on babies and anyway you're too damn tired to exercise. Also, I'm tired of waking up in a pool of blood and I'm not happy about the way my period just gets worse and worse as I get older yet my older friends only utter sepulchral laughs when I complain about this and tell me that I have seen nothing yet.
Despite all this, the prospect of menopause fills me with even more daunting horror because then, as far as I know and rumor has it, I will overnight sprout a million wrinkles and chin hairs, begin cackling, dry up altogether and never have sex again. I mean, fuck. This sucks. They tell you it's natural but natural is not always so great, you know? Typhoid is natural and so is cholera and so, apparently, is the way my upper arms and belly are changing shape and not for the better. Bah. The whole thing is completely fucked up.
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3 comments:
And this, dear fliss fans, is why I read this blog every single day. The "underside of 40" could be a great title of a book. Fliss, you are brilliant!
Also, natural soaps suck. They don't clean well. And forget natural flea killers.
p.s. my dear, you forgot (or maybe you have not been informed yet...) about the growth of nipple hairs that start sprouting out! your best weapon upon that little joy is... TWEEZERS! LOL! or cry! (i lol because i want to stay somewhat sane!)
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