The One With A Weapon Of Mass Destruction

*Author's note:  In no way, shape or form is any content of this blog intended to be political or controversial.  My reference to the NRA is only used as an example of how one might or might not obtain a Weapon of Mass Destruction with which to stop one's husband from snoring.  Any other meaning taken thereof is strictly in your own mind.  This blog is not a Democracy.  It is a Dictatorship. Leave your politics off my page.

I'm not gonna lie; the only reason Dan is still alive this morning is because I couldn't get my hands on a Weapon Of Mass Destruction at 3:36 this morning.

I've told you before about his snoring, his godawful snoring, his terrible, horrible, GODAWFUL SNORING.  This is not the gentle snoring that lulls you to sleep with a smile on your lips, secure in the knowledge that your spouse is lying next to you blissfully dreaming of chasing rabbits and eating cotton candy.  Oh HELLL no.  This is the loud, bone-jarring, nerve-racking, incessant roar of someone sitting right next to your head on a Harley, revving it non-stop for 8 to 10 hours every.single.night.

Every.Single.Night.

EVERY.SINGLE.NIGHT.

Night in, night out, night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year, the engine of that motherfucking Harley never catches and goes.  Never.  It just revs.  And revs.  And revs.  And revs.

AND REVS.


We had him tested for sleep apnea and he passed with flying colors.

He tries sleeping on his left side... he snores like it's his job.

He tries sleeping on his right side... he snores like he's working over time and the money is big.

He tries sleeping on his back and ...

Don't even get me started with what happens when he sleeps on his back.

This.  THIS happens.

The other night as I was lying in bed counting the moments until dawn I thought to myself, "If I had a dollar for every night I've spent awake listening to Dan snore, I'd have, like, a million dollars or something."

(Don't judge.  I suck at math.  Either way, it would be a boatload of money.  And by "a boatload," I mean "More than I have right now.")


Anyway, so last night was the last.freaking.straw.

Don't get me wrong, I've plotted his demise before.  (What, like you haven't?  Everyone who knows Dan has plotted his demise at some point or another.)   Usually, as I'm lying awake, rather than counting how much money I'd theoretically have if someone paid me to put up with his snoring (which no one has, yet... *hint hint*) I'm planning the Perfect Murder.

The Perfect Murder Plot has come a long way, thanks to hours of research (and by "research" I mean "Watching Snapped!"  Those bitches got caught.  I won't.)  I won't go into detail, but it all ends with me getting a good night's sleep.

He loves it when I suggest this.  LOVES it.  It doesn't make him nervous AT ALL.

It also frequently ends with me being featured on an episode of Deadly Women.  It'll be the episode where everyone stands and cheers at the end, because not a jury in the world would convict me.  Why, you ask?  Because I have hours of his snoring recorded.  I like to play it for him when he's really tired.

Word.

(This blog is a little disjointed because I've had like 8 minutes of sleep in the past 12 years.  Forgive me for not being on top of my game.)


So like I was saying, last night I was lying next to Dan, plotting his demise.  The snoring had reached fever pitch.  To make it even more special, he was crowding me out of bed, his head resting almost on my pillow (which is a total and complete no-no in my house, due to the excessive amount of drool that pours out of his mouth the second his head hits the pillow) and sawing wood millimeters from my ear.  I had pushed, punched, kicked, whacked, shoved, poked, and pinched him so many times that *I* was tired of it.

And then I thought, "Ya know, if I had a Weapon of Mass Destruction, I could strap his ass to it and the problem would be SOLVED."

And then I wondered, "Where does one get a Weapon of Mass Destruction?"


Does one contact the NRA?

Because that's out of the question.  I refuse to pay a club just so I can be a member.  If you don't like me well enough on my own merit, then by God, I don't want to hang out with you.  If the NRA can't appreciate me for my finer qualities, then they can kiss my dimpled white ass, thank you very much.

(I started getting pissed, thinking about the NRA and how if I wanted a Weapon of Mass Destruction, I'd have to pay them to be my friend.  Screw you, NRA.  You don't even know me.)

Long story short (because I'm tired and lost my train of thought) due to the fact that I'm not a member of the NRA and refuse to pay them to like me, Dan was allowed to live until morning.

The first thing I said to him was, "Do not bother coming home from work tonight without ear plugs for me."

Him:  "Why?"

Me:  "Because if I have to spend another night listening to you snore, one of us will not make it until tomorrow."


I ratted him out to his mom later in the morning and she informed me she has some ear plugs that I can have.  I thanked her profusely (I may have wept a little... ) and told Dan, "Your mom has ear plugs for me!"


Dan:  "That's great!  I'll finally get a good night's sleep!"


(I'll let you all chew on that for a minute.  Still wondering why everyone who knows Dan has plotted his demise at one time or another?  I didn't think so.)



Me:  *blink*  *blink*


Dan:  *happily going about his business, visions of sugar plums dancing in his empty head*


Me:  "What do you mean, YOU will finally get a good night's sleep?"


Dan:  "I'm tired of you waking me up all night because I'm snoring.  I can't even sleep on my left side because I'm "snoring on you."    I didn't sleep for shit last night."

The Phantom Of The Period

*insert creepy Phantom-type noises*

So it turns out that I'm not in actual menopause, per se, but in peri-menopause.  It's Menopause:  The Prequal.  Loosely translated, this means that for the next 1 to 15 years, I will be experiencing allllllll the symptoms of PMS/PMDD with or without a period and with or without respite.  Rather than have a period 3 to 5 days with 28 days off, I'll have no period but feel like I'm having one for 28 days and if Mother Nature chooses to smile upon me, have 3 to 5 days off.

I'm so damned excited about this that I can hardly stop dancing.

Anyway, due to the fact that I am experiencing such hideous symptoms from Hell, I decided it was probably time to do some research.

I took a little test online that assured me I am, indeed, peri-menopausal and probably will be for the rest of my natural life, or at least until I turn into a man (which apparently happens to women right around the age of 55).  At that point, I will shrink in height, grow a beard and a mustache, my vagina will dry up and fall  off, and I will frighten small children, who will think I'm a witch.  Then I'll either get a bunch of cats or spend my days in my bathrobe eating frosting from a can and washing it down with vodka.



(There is just so much awesomeness in the above paragraph that I don't know which to look forward to the most.)

(Also?  I'm not a fan of cats, so...)

Then I came across something that totally explains everything I've been going through for the past week...

I'm having a Phantom Period.

A Phantom Period.


That's like having a period without actually having one.  Only more so.

It's the Ghost of Periods Past.


Who knew such a thing existed??  It's like spending your entire life not believing in aliens and then suddenly being abducted by one.  During the anal probe you'd be all, "Well color me embarrassed! So Aliens DO exist!  Who knew??"  

That's kind of how I felt reading about the Phantom Period.

I've been suddenly placed in an adult episode of Scooby Doo, where Fred, Daphne, Velma, Scooby. and Shaggy all drive around in the Mystery Machine looking for my period.  It's out there... they know they have A Mystery To Solve...  and at varying points during the show, Shaggy will point a quaking finger in the general vicinity of my uterus and quaver, "Look... IT'S THE PHANTOM!!"  And then Scooby will leap into his arms and they will quiver and shake until the rest of the gang appears.

Sooner or later a chase scene will ensue, the Phantom will pop out of doors and cupboards and race, hands out-stretched, towards the hapless Shaggy and his canine friend.

Like this.

Then they'll discover that the Phantom wasn't actually a Phantom at all, but some bad guys looking for treasure.

Or some such shit.


Only in The Case of the Phantom Period?  Scooby and The Gang will unmask it and there will be nothing there.

Except a shriveled old uterus, cramping and bitching for no apparent reason.

And then POOF!!!  A hot flash... a flaming reproductive organ... and then...

Nothing.

Yeah.


Welcome to my life.

The One Where Menopause Kicks My Ass And Makes Me Cry

*Warning:  This blog may or may not contain excessive use of the word "fuck."  You probably don't want to read it out loud to your boss, your gramma, or your 5 year old.

So yeah... I think it's finally hit.

Here's how I know:

Right now, this very minute?  My period is three weeks late and I have an almost uncontrollable need to bite someone.

Everyone is mean and making me cry.

And I want to hurt them.

And then cry about it.  Hard.

And after I'm done with that?  I want vodka, chocolate, and an argument.  Which I will win by default, because I will just yell "BULLSHIT!" until I do.

I have had cramps for 6 weeks.  Seriously.  I have had relentless hormonal headaches, night sweats, hot flashes, pimples, bloating, mood swings, back aches, body aches, pre-homicidal episodes...

I am probably the most irrational person in the world.

But if you suggest that I might be irrational?

I will kill you in your sleep.

This is how my arguments have gone lately:

Person with different opinion:  *Rational argument, facts and figures, logic*

Me:  "BULLSHIT."

Person with different opinion:  *Rational argument, facts and figures, logic*

Me:  "Seriously?  BULLSHIT."

Person with different opinion:  *Rational argument, facts and figures, logic*

Me:  *rude butt-noise made on my hand*

Or, the alternate scenario:

Person with different opinion:  *Rational argument, facts and figures, logic*

Me:  "You're wrong.  WRONG."

Person with different opinion:  "Why am I wrong?"

Me:  "Because FUCK YOU."

Here's the thing:  I've always had horrrrible PMS.  Actually, I have PMDD, which is PMS on steroids holding a hand grenade. It's like Mutant Ninja PMS, with screaming, crying, bloating, cramping, and chocolate.  I can rationally determine, while I'm in the throes of a PMS meltdown, that my problem is, indeed, entirely menstrual, and that I'm over-reacting, and I have no real reason (other than hormones) for my behavior... but I can't stop it from happening.  

Like today, for example...

I have been crying all day.  Everything is upsetting me.  I'm mad at the drop of a hat.  My feelings are one giant, raw, open wound.  Everything hurts.  Everything.  My head hurts, my body hurts, my feelings hurt.  I've stomped upstairs in a snit twice.  I've thrown myself face down on the bed and sobbed, also twice.  

Then I blamed it all on Dan.

(Chances are, he does bear some blame in all of this.  So I wasn't entirely out of line.)


The actual conversation:


Me:  *lying face down on the bed sobbing*


Dan:  *cluelessly following me into the bedroom*  What's wrong??"


Me:  "I'M SICK AND TIRED OF YOU YELLING AT ME!"


Dan:  "What are you talking about??? I'm not yelling at you!"


Me:  "OH, BULLSHIT!  YOU HAVE BEEN YELLING AT ME NON-STOP FOR TWO WEEKS!"


Dan:  "I have not!  Dani, I haven't been yelling at you!"


Me:  "BULLSHIT!!  STOP. YELLING. AT. ME!!!"


Dan:  "I'M NOT YELLING AT YOU!"


Me:  *pointing accusingly and bursting into a fresh flow of tears*  "SEE??  RIGHT THERE!!  YOU'RE YELLING AT ME!!!"


I know, I know.

Exactly.

It seems like only yesterday I was curled up in the fetal position hugging a heating pad and begging for death every time I got my period.  

Now?  I would sell my SOUL for that.  If it meant this?  Would go. The fuck.  Away.

This is my message to my 15 year old bed-ridden self, fyi.

I currently have a list of people in my head who seriously need to kiss my ass.

They include:


1.  Everyone who has ever told me that menopause is no big deal and that they just stopped having their period one day and lived happily ever after.


2.  Everyone who has ever told me that exercise will help with my menopause symptoms.  (And for them I include a Very Special "FUCK YOU!"  I'm too tired, crampy, bitchy, whiny, irritated, and sweaty to exercise, ASSHOLES.)


3.  Everyone who is younger than I am and has NO IDEA what I'm going through.


4.  Men.  Men can all kiss my ass.


5.  Everyone who has poured salt into the giant gaping wound that is my feelings lately.


6.  Night sweats.  Night sweats can fuck the hell off and die.


This is me (for the most part) when I go to bed at night:

Me when I wake up in the morning:

Okay, fine.


This is me when I wake up in the morning after sweating my ass off all night (but only from the neck up):

7.  Everyone.


I can't keep my mouth shut, you guys.  I can't.  If I have an opinion, it is bound to come out.

I spent years smiling politely while people voiced their feelings and opinions, no matter how stupid or wrong they were.  I knew I wasn't going to change their mind any more than they were going to change mine, and if I just didn't respond or disagree, they'd eventually peter out and change the subject, and we'd go back to talking about shoes and make-up and gossiping about all the people we mutually didn't like.

Now, however?  Like, for the past five months?

I just. Can't. Do it.

And you're gonna like it, dammit... Like it and thank me for it.

Here's the truth:

I started writing this blog yesterday.  Yesterday was a really bad day for me.  I honestly could not stop crying.  I felt like I was being crushed by depression, physically suffocated by despair.  I lost a long time friend due to insensitive behavior on her part and was truly devastated by how badly she hurt my feelings.

Then I read how lovely, courageous little Alice Pyne, the young girl who writes Alice's Bucket List, lost her battle to cancer.  

I was overwhelmed with grief by the loss of this young and promising life.

I cried so hard I ran out of tears.

Strangely, I woke up this morning feeling almost like my old sassy beforemenopausemademeit'sbitch self.

And while I know this is too good to  last (unless rainbows and unicorns start shooting out of my uterus) I'ma take it.

The First Great Underwear Battle of 2013

It happened again.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and suddenly felt like I was being strangled by my underwear.

And by "strangled" I don't mean "something wrapped around my neck choking the life out of me."  What I actually mean is "something climbing up my ass and choking the life out of my girly bits."

It's a strange phenomenon, why this happens.  I can spend an entire day in my underwear (which I do... every.single.day...  there is no commando going on in my pants, fyi) and I'm fine.  No wedgies,  no creepers, no picking my seat when I stand up.  All is good with my girl parts, everything's fine, everything's exactly where it's supposed to be.  

(Sorry... there will be no gratuitous vajay shot here to illustrate my point.)

(Did you know that in England the word "fanny" means "vaj"?  I found that out in the most random way this summer.  My sister-in-law, Taryn, a full-blown Brit, was visiting.  At some point during the visit I told someone to get their fanny into the house, or some such thing.  And THAT is when I was informed that "fanny" is another word for the frontal region, not the backal region, in the good old U.K.  So now I can't say "fanny" without feeling just a little bit dirty.  Thanks, Taryn.  And no, that didn't have anything to do, really, with this blog.  It just popped into my head when I wrote "vajay."  I can never overlook a good opportunity to educate.   And now?  You are all just a little bit smarter.  Unless you're from the U.K. and already knew that.  You're welcome.)

(I'm also pretty sure I just killed spell-check.  Without any warning, all my squiggly red lines disappeared.  Huh.)

And now, back to my Epic Underwear War.

So as I said, I can spend an entire day without even thinking about my underpants.  They're down there, doing their job (which is maintaining a layer of protection between my pants and my hoo-hah) and I'm up here, doing what *I* do (which is very, very important stuff, y'all).  We're each minding our own business, keeping things going in our prospective areas.  

And then?

I go to bed.  All is well inside my jammie bottoms.  

Eventually, I drift off to sleep.

Usually, I stay asleep (except for the 15 times a night I get up to pee, which doesn't really count).

But every once in a while, I will wake up with the uncomfortable feeling that something is wrong.

Last night was one of those nights.

I had (mysteriously... seriously, this never happens) fallen asleep fairly quickly after I went to bed.  Maisy was under the covers pressed against me, snoring, the room was the perfect temperature, Dan was breathing deeply but not necessarily rattling the walls with his sonorous nighttime chorus... All systems were GO for an easy night's sleep.

And then?

I woke up.

I laid there for a moment, wondering why I felt vaguely uneasy.  

And then... I knew.

Well, shit.

I readjusted and tried to go back to sleep.

It didn't work.

I got out of bed, rearranged my underclothing, got back into bed, and tried to go back to sleep.

Nope.

I tried to ignore it.

Not.Freaking.Possible.

Because this?  Is hard to ignore.

I flopped over onto my other side.

I kicked my feet frantically until I was out of breath.

Dan, rolling over and coming out of his stupor long enough to be annoyed:  "What's wrong??  What are you doing?"

Me:  "MY UNDERWEAR IS TRYING TO KILL ME, OKAY?"

Dan:  *SNOOOOOOOOOOOOORE*

(Apparently my imminent Death By Underwear is of no concern to him.  Bastard.)

I slid my hips up to see if that would dislodge the wedgie.

It didn't.

I did a little bump and grind while lying on my side.

Nope nope.

I yanked. 

I pulled.

I stretched.

I did a combination yankpullstretch with a little kick-bumpandgrindhipslide...

Me, screaming at my underwear:  "GET OUT OF MY ASS!!"

My underwear:  "Make me!"

(Seriously, you guys... that totally happened.)

I feel your pain, Dubya.  *fist bump*

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, "Why the hell didn't you just take them off??"

I know, right?

I'll tell you why...

Because it was 3 in the freaking morning and I didn't think of it.

Until 4.  I thought of it at 4 in the freaking morning.

I rolled out of bed, dropped trou, and climbed back into bed.

Sadly, by that time I was wide awake and pissed off.

But the wedgie?

I killed that motherfucker.

BOOM.