Finally, it's cooling down. For those of us who are MenoPausitive this is good news. No more schlepping out to job interviews and arriving wetter than I was when I got out of the shower. No more standing under the ceiling fan for a half hour before getting dressed. And forget standing in front of the open fridge door.
This season opened with my hubby's birthday - just a few friends, a lot of beer and some chocolate cake. A return to the BWGWC (Bradford West Gwillimbury Writers Circle) operating out of the new public library here in Bradford. A special note to some of us who were nominated to speak on "Open Mic Night" on November 15th. I offered to censor some of my material but the concensus is 'don't'. We'll see if they want me back after this! Also nominated to be featured at one of the library's "Author's Night Speakers" - details to come - goody. Next in the works is a series of writing workshops sponsored by the library board. I told them to take a look at my website, sift through some of my works and read the excerpts. Ah - Haven't heard back from them yet. Inasmuch as I write for a micro-niche of readers which, incidentally, seem to outnumber the 'general' readership, I really would like to expand my genres and not concentrate so much on which character's penis is being inserted into whichever other character's orafice (or, meatus as those months in med. admin. have taught me).
And speaking of the job front - two interviews last week which leaves me waiting for a total of 3 call backs. Another interview tomorrow which, when I reread the job app, finds me wondering what state of mind I was in when I applied since it involves nothing I'm really interested in. I'm tempted to cancel but my curiosity wants me to stick it out. It's the old 'Road Not Taken' and the reckless side of me that sometimes can't help but open that old chest in the attic even though I'm pretty sure that I'll be the cause and catalyst of the next apocalypse. Oh well, fortune favours the bold so we'll see what I've got myself into tomorrow. For now, I'm still peddling my ass - in the physical aspect - by parking my exercise bike in front of the tv and catching up on the new crop of season premiers. Thank God for pvr's.
Totally addicted to NCIS, and Mark Harmon (yum!). Project Runway-just when I thought the gay designers couldn't possibly get any gayer, they are. Ice Road Truckers because, having made the trek through the province of New Brunswick in the middle of winter on nothing but a sometimes-maintained logging road, I like to hear the truckers whine and cry about how frigging cold it is up here. Yeah, boys - it's Canada. Hawaii Five-O because I love Scott Caan and the witty banter between Steve and Dano. Okay, Jack Lord and James McArthur they ain't but once in a while they shed their shirts. Flashpoint - of course. Shot in Toronto and I get to have personal, in-house, play-by-play commentary on each and every move - and what's WRONG with it. Nuff Said. How much fun is that? Ditto for Law & Order: SVU because...you just can't have too much "In The Criminal Justice System..." I also await the new season of Masterpiece Theatre and the special little cake tweaks PBS likes to drop in from time to time - when they're not begging for money, of course. Love laughing my ass off with The Big Bang Gang (pun intended!) and ending the week with Blue Bloods (yeah, Tom Sellick is getting long in the tooth but he still has class).
It's Sunday so I close today as I can smell the moose simmering in the crock pot. Yep - MOOSE. Stewing in stoneware, surrounded by garden fresh onions and new potatoes. Not my cup of tea but the man made a special request so we'll see how it turns out. Hopefully I won't be posting my next blog entry from the Newmarket ICU.
TTFN....
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Another Day in Job Search Paradise
Had an interview today - with a vet. Animal, not military. An unlikely career choice but - as I AM on marriage no. 3 (if anyone's counting) - I've always said that I'll never have another husband but I'll always have another dog - or cat! I say this as 'Beau' my 3-year-old feline beauty sprawls across my mouse pad after licking what's left of his balls.
In a way men are like cats - some are very warm and furry and purr quite loudly when someone else does the ball-licking. Beau is quite a charmer. He doesn't understand that Mom is having major angst over trying to find a job. But he does sense that something is a bit off. He licks me more than usual. Maybe its because whenever I unconsciously download my Meno-app - iSweat - my arms taste nice and salty. Maybe its because I deboned a chicken for supper and he's draining the dregs of roasted fowl pheromones. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful for the sandpaper kisses and reward him with a scratch behind his ears.
Or, maybe he senses that there is a potential employer out there with enough feline fur to satisfy any fuzzy fetish (I just had to try to get four 'f's' into that sentence). Does he sense impending usurpment of his throne? Not likely since his too-beautiful-diva twin sister invented upstaging so he's used to playing second fiddle. I think he might be hinting that as a result of today's cattle call in Barrie I too will probably be upstaged by approximately 30 or so younger, thinner (but not so brilliant) candidates for the vet job. But unlike Beau, I won't even get a scratch behind my ears for my troubles. I'll be lucky if I get a call-back for the infamous "group" interview.
I often wonder about the wisdom of group anythings. What does the HR department get out of these mass cullings? Do they expect us to compete like gladiators in the arena? Cat fights (pardon the pun) to determine the last CSR standing? How about a reality show - "Job Market Survivor" - watch 16 unemployed Canadians as they battle to the death for a single position. Thank goodness I don't have to do this on skates. I can't imagine enforcing my way past Ty Domi for a shot at the gainfully employed goal. I'm the player who will get the crap beat out of them; tossed head-first into the boards and run over by the Zamboni as the driver flips me the bird.
If nothing else, however, it gives me the chance to check out the competition. And from what I've seen so far, I wonder what team the opposition is playing for. There were the "I don't care about my appearance so I'm showing up in jeans" group, a crowd of "I'm flaunting my wicked eyeliner and tats," a gaggle of "shut-up I'm on my cell phoners," a party of "my jingly jewelery and I took a bath in perfume" and last, but not least, a couple of old broads like myself, classic and conservative, dismissively eyeing the rest and smiling at each other out of veteran respect. This is my competition. Bruised, battered but still here for the long haul. Time will tell if the Gods were in our favour today.
Hopefully - not too much time!
And now...to take out the garbage and pill the cat.
In a way men are like cats - some are very warm and furry and purr quite loudly when someone else does the ball-licking. Beau is quite a charmer. He doesn't understand that Mom is having major angst over trying to find a job. But he does sense that something is a bit off. He licks me more than usual. Maybe its because whenever I unconsciously download my Meno-app - iSweat - my arms taste nice and salty. Maybe its because I deboned a chicken for supper and he's draining the dregs of roasted fowl pheromones. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful for the sandpaper kisses and reward him with a scratch behind his ears.
Or, maybe he senses that there is a potential employer out there with enough feline fur to satisfy any fuzzy fetish (I just had to try to get four 'f's' into that sentence). Does he sense impending usurpment of his throne? Not likely since his too-beautiful-diva twin sister invented upstaging so he's used to playing second fiddle. I think he might be hinting that as a result of today's cattle call in Barrie I too will probably be upstaged by approximately 30 or so younger, thinner (but not so brilliant) candidates for the vet job. But unlike Beau, I won't even get a scratch behind my ears for my troubles. I'll be lucky if I get a call-back for the infamous "group" interview.
I often wonder about the wisdom of group anythings. What does the HR department get out of these mass cullings? Do they expect us to compete like gladiators in the arena? Cat fights (pardon the pun) to determine the last CSR standing? How about a reality show - "Job Market Survivor" - watch 16 unemployed Canadians as they battle to the death for a single position. Thank goodness I don't have to do this on skates. I can't imagine enforcing my way past Ty Domi for a shot at the gainfully employed goal. I'm the player who will get the crap beat out of them; tossed head-first into the boards and run over by the Zamboni as the driver flips me the bird.
If nothing else, however, it gives me the chance to check out the competition. And from what I've seen so far, I wonder what team the opposition is playing for. There were the "I don't care about my appearance so I'm showing up in jeans" group, a crowd of "I'm flaunting my wicked eyeliner and tats," a gaggle of "shut-up I'm on my cell phoners," a party of "my jingly jewelery and I took a bath in perfume" and last, but not least, a couple of old broads like myself, classic and conservative, dismissively eyeing the rest and smiling at each other out of veteran respect. This is my competition. Bruised, battered but still here for the long haul. Time will tell if the Gods were in our favour today.
Hopefully - not too much time!
And now...to take out the garbage and pill the cat.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Diet, The Job Search and The Never Ending Reno
So...It's September and day three of yet another diet and exercise program concludes. Rode ten miles on my exercise bike - 237 calories burned - one frozen yogurt bar consumed, followed by four bottles of water. Wondering how many calories consumed by running back and forth to the bathroom to pee. Whole wheat pasta and sauteed veggies for supper. Good until I had to make the man's lunch for tomorrow - licked a line of Becel off the butter knife like a junkie jonesing on a dare snort off a public toilet seat! Resisted the urge to wet my finger and tap up the white bread crumbs. More water!
Jobs applied for: none today. I think most HR offices are still experiencing extra-extra long weekend hangovers. Expecting job scene to pick up later in the week. Still fighting with Employment Insurance Canada for botched paperwork at their end = no money at my end. Hit the local Giant Tiger for .43 cans of tomato soup, two bucks off almost-expired milk and applesauce for the old gall bladder. (Note: the above veggies came from my garden.) If EI doesn't get off their ass soon and pay me, the cats will be eating better then we do. Still hoping something will come out of my hospital volunteer position. On the upside, if the gall bladder explodes, I can walk myself over to emerg and save on the ambulance transport fee.
Keep promising myself to work on removing the wallpaper - or what's left of it. I'd like to find the morons who owned this house before we did and smack their heads together! Contact cement on wallpaper borders - really?? Am learning to repair drywall. If it weren't for Wikipedia, we'd be living in a tent. Hope to move the first bookcase tomorrow. As usual, I'm up on a ladder when plot-defining scenes and witty dialogue pops into my head. I now keep a notebook on the ladder and a pen on a string. Must remember to shorten string - CATS!
Have decided to write another gay novel. This may have something to do with the demise of HQN Spice. The Reluctant Whore needs an edit in the worst way. Trying to decide where to send my fairy story.
------
Just returned from the mailbox with October issue of Romantic Times. Nothing further will get done today. Must resist temptation to buy September Vogue until at least the weekend. Won't be able to get it off the rack anyway without a portable block and tackle.
Now...where are those historical fiction reviews??????
Jobs applied for: none today. I think most HR offices are still experiencing extra-extra long weekend hangovers. Expecting job scene to pick up later in the week. Still fighting with Employment Insurance Canada for botched paperwork at their end = no money at my end. Hit the local Giant Tiger for .43 cans of tomato soup, two bucks off almost-expired milk and applesauce for the old gall bladder. (Note: the above veggies came from my garden.) If EI doesn't get off their ass soon and pay me, the cats will be eating better then we do. Still hoping something will come out of my hospital volunteer position. On the upside, if the gall bladder explodes, I can walk myself over to emerg and save on the ambulance transport fee.
Keep promising myself to work on removing the wallpaper - or what's left of it. I'd like to find the morons who owned this house before we did and smack their heads together! Contact cement on wallpaper borders - really?? Am learning to repair drywall. If it weren't for Wikipedia, we'd be living in a tent. Hope to move the first bookcase tomorrow. As usual, I'm up on a ladder when plot-defining scenes and witty dialogue pops into my head. I now keep a notebook on the ladder and a pen on a string. Must remember to shorten string - CATS!
Have decided to write another gay novel. This may have something to do with the demise of HQN Spice. The Reluctant Whore needs an edit in the worst way. Trying to decide where to send my fairy story.
------
Just returned from the mailbox with October issue of Romantic Times. Nothing further will get done today. Must resist temptation to buy September Vogue until at least the weekend. Won't be able to get it off the rack anyway without a portable block and tackle.
Now...where are those historical fiction reviews??????
Monday, September 5, 2011
Another One Bites The Dust
B'bye Labour Day Weekend. It ends as it should; cold, gloomy windy - without the 'bang' and definitely with a whimper. No last blast BBQ, no run to the LCBO - simply with a roast of port simmering, a husband snoozing and two cats clawing more holes in my sofa. It's not officially Fall by the calendar but the feeling hangs heavily in the air, like the smell of decomposing greenery in my recycle bin.
I Love Fall! It's my 'summer.' I love digging out the cable-knits, donning my long pants and not have to worry about keeping up my pedicure or feeling forced to shave something every time I hit the shower. Not to mention that the rivers of sweat-inducing humidity will soon clear out and late afternoons - or early mornings - will be perfect for walks.
I find I hit my creative stride in the Fall. Ideas seem to come easier, not beaten down (I suppose) by the oppresive heat of summer. Things seem to flow smoother, faster and with a more steady rhythm. Some people are Spring writers - preferring to wait until the last petrified pile of grey snow has melted before they buckle down to the keyboard. I know a few - very few - summer writers. These are mostly people who make the weekend run to the cottage and pound away at a keyboard on a dock, surrounded by water, beer and have rivulets of sunscreen dripping off their nose and splashing off the space bar. The majority of my writer friends leave it all for the winter months - closing up social shop at 00:01 on November 1, immediately after disposing of the wilted pumpkin and sweeping the evenings' accumulation of empty chip bags and Kit Kat wrappers off the porch. They are also the same people who wake up on the 23rd of December, throw a wreath on the door, grab some Wal-Mart gift cards, a pre-stuffed turkey and call it Christmas. I really admire those types of people. I collide with them in the dying days of Fall, usually in the middle of the Wal-Mart line.
If I'm a good writer and I carry the momentum through until Easter, that gives me enough lead time to hit the end-of-winter sales and shop for next Christmas without having to break a sweat. That's when I see the last of the winter writers, wincing at the sunlight and preparing their edits to send off material in advance of the pre-writer's season editorial rush. (For you non-writers out there, Spring and Summer mean a lot of writing conferences - RT, BEA, RWA - after which editors are deluged with new manuscripts.)
And so, here it is. For every writer there is Season. For every a season there is a new book. My season is heavily polluted with edits and the raking of new ideas, or in lieu of, leaves from my neighbour's encrouching Maple tree. And seeing that my neighbours have just left for a month in Newfoundland, I may spend my dwindling summer hours on a ladder with a very long pair of pruning shears.
I Love Fall! It's my 'summer.' I love digging out the cable-knits, donning my long pants and not have to worry about keeping up my pedicure or feeling forced to shave something every time I hit the shower. Not to mention that the rivers of sweat-inducing humidity will soon clear out and late afternoons - or early mornings - will be perfect for walks.
I find I hit my creative stride in the Fall. Ideas seem to come easier, not beaten down (I suppose) by the oppresive heat of summer. Things seem to flow smoother, faster and with a more steady rhythm. Some people are Spring writers - preferring to wait until the last petrified pile of grey snow has melted before they buckle down to the keyboard. I know a few - very few - summer writers. These are mostly people who make the weekend run to the cottage and pound away at a keyboard on a dock, surrounded by water, beer and have rivulets of sunscreen dripping off their nose and splashing off the space bar. The majority of my writer friends leave it all for the winter months - closing up social shop at 00:01 on November 1, immediately after disposing of the wilted pumpkin and sweeping the evenings' accumulation of empty chip bags and Kit Kat wrappers off the porch. They are also the same people who wake up on the 23rd of December, throw a wreath on the door, grab some Wal-Mart gift cards, a pre-stuffed turkey and call it Christmas. I really admire those types of people. I collide with them in the dying days of Fall, usually in the middle of the Wal-Mart line.
If I'm a good writer and I carry the momentum through until Easter, that gives me enough lead time to hit the end-of-winter sales and shop for next Christmas without having to break a sweat. That's when I see the last of the winter writers, wincing at the sunlight and preparing their edits to send off material in advance of the pre-writer's season editorial rush. (For you non-writers out there, Spring and Summer mean a lot of writing conferences - RT, BEA, RWA - after which editors are deluged with new manuscripts.)
And so, here it is. For every writer there is Season. For every a season there is a new book. My season is heavily polluted with edits and the raking of new ideas, or in lieu of, leaves from my neighbour's encrouching Maple tree. And seeing that my neighbours have just left for a month in Newfoundland, I may spend my dwindling summer hours on a ladder with a very long pair of pruning shears.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Labour Day Weekend
Ouch! There's that 'u' thingy again. On to today...
Since it's the last blast of summer before the return to school, regular hours and sobriety, here's to the start of the weekend. I cleaned the BBQ. I had to. My hubby loves to BBQ - he's the Chairman of the Grill (without the foreign words of anyones' uncle). He could fillet Bobby Flay. And I dare Guy Fierri to roll up in the Cami, Drive to our humble Semi in the 'burbs, Dine at our antique oak table by Diving into one of the man's steaks.
Feel free to thank the humble servant who spent two days blasting the grill plates. You see, I live at the end of that road to Hell which is paved with good intentions. Ever since last April when the man leans into the stretch of the upcoming weekend and I frantically rush to the fridge to scribble down the chores on the white board, I always write down his repetitive quote, "remind me to clean the BBQ grills." Being on the Virgo/Libra cusp, there exists in the man a streak of procrastination wider than my butt. Yet the weekends come and go and my burger, chop or steak is coated with an ever increasing layer of charred remains of the previous meal.
"I gotta clean that grill," he mumbles and picks off a fleck of cremated protein from his current crispy corpse. He looks over at my meal. "Just eat around the burnt part," he instructs. I sacrifice to the Cancer god and pray my gall bladder doesn't explode. "I'll clean it," I gently offer. To which he says, "no, hon. I said would do it and I will." He just never said when. So today, in 40+C humidity I took my pail, rubber gloves, scouring pads and mini-vac out to the deck to do battle.
As I scrubbed and scoured and pounded away at the blackened, cemented-on gunk, the right side of my brain turned on - as a writer's brain must do, or perish - and I likened myself to one of the many nameless Brit archaeologists patiently digging out a pre-Cambrian burial ground. The left side of my brain questioned the wisdom of wanting to be cremated at some time in the future. Back to the dig. Would some intrepid scholar exhume the few pounds of my powdery leftovers some centuries from now? What sorts of conclusions would the doctor scribble down after sifting through my ashes? I can just imagine him/her shaking their head in disgust and muttering, "too much red meat." Keen eyes scanning the screen on some 23rd microscope and raising a quizzical brow in amazement as my last meal is dissected and the state of my health at the time of my death is flashed up for all the learned colleagues to ponder. Red meat, chocolate, alcohol, dairy products and some kind of starch - no wonder this poor woman's heart exploded!
They may question my choice of sides but, hey, what's a good steak without a baked potato loaded up with sour cream and butter, a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake to finish off the day. It begs the question: do I want to die happy or hungry? I return to reality.
The BBQ is now de-charred and ready for the long weekend. Tonight I'll bake that chocolate cake which may very well kill me someday but I'm taking it to my Dad tomorrow to celebrate his birthday. He's managed to reach the middle-senior era of the 70's, despite the above mentioned lifetime diet. And the four heart attacks. God bless the Labour Day weekend. God bless my Dad. And above all - God bless the Canadian health system which allows me to consume cholesterol-lowering drugs.
Happy Labour Day Weekend.
Since it's the last blast of summer before the return to school, regular hours and sobriety, here's to the start of the weekend. I cleaned the BBQ. I had to. My hubby loves to BBQ - he's the Chairman of the Grill (without the foreign words of anyones' uncle). He could fillet Bobby Flay. And I dare Guy Fierri to roll up in the Cami, Drive to our humble Semi in the 'burbs, Dine at our antique oak table by Diving into one of the man's steaks.
Feel free to thank the humble servant who spent two days blasting the grill plates. You see, I live at the end of that road to Hell which is paved with good intentions. Ever since last April when the man leans into the stretch of the upcoming weekend and I frantically rush to the fridge to scribble down the chores on the white board, I always write down his repetitive quote, "remind me to clean the BBQ grills." Being on the Virgo/Libra cusp, there exists in the man a streak of procrastination wider than my butt. Yet the weekends come and go and my burger, chop or steak is coated with an ever increasing layer of charred remains of the previous meal.
"I gotta clean that grill," he mumbles and picks off a fleck of cremated protein from his current crispy corpse. He looks over at my meal. "Just eat around the burnt part," he instructs. I sacrifice to the Cancer god and pray my gall bladder doesn't explode. "I'll clean it," I gently offer. To which he says, "no, hon. I said would do it and I will." He just never said when. So today, in 40+C humidity I took my pail, rubber gloves, scouring pads and mini-vac out to the deck to do battle.
As I scrubbed and scoured and pounded away at the blackened, cemented-on gunk, the right side of my brain turned on - as a writer's brain must do, or perish - and I likened myself to one of the many nameless Brit archaeologists patiently digging out a pre-Cambrian burial ground. The left side of my brain questioned the wisdom of wanting to be cremated at some time in the future. Back to the dig. Would some intrepid scholar exhume the few pounds of my powdery leftovers some centuries from now? What sorts of conclusions would the doctor scribble down after sifting through my ashes? I can just imagine him/her shaking their head in disgust and muttering, "too much red meat." Keen eyes scanning the screen on some 23rd microscope and raising a quizzical brow in amazement as my last meal is dissected and the state of my health at the time of my death is flashed up for all the learned colleagues to ponder. Red meat, chocolate, alcohol, dairy products and some kind of starch - no wonder this poor woman's heart exploded!
They may question my choice of sides but, hey, what's a good steak without a baked potato loaded up with sour cream and butter, a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake to finish off the day. It begs the question: do I want to die happy or hungry? I return to reality.
The BBQ is now de-charred and ready for the long weekend. Tonight I'll bake that chocolate cake which may very well kill me someday but I'm taking it to my Dad tomorrow to celebrate his birthday. He's managed to reach the middle-senior era of the 70's, despite the above mentioned lifetime diet. And the four heart attacks. God bless the Labour Day weekend. God bless my Dad. And above all - God bless the Canadian health system which allows me to consume cholesterol-lowering drugs.
Happy Labour Day Weekend.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Great Canadian Middle-Age Rant
For lack of anything better to do (insert sarcastic smirk) I've returned to blogging. Probably because I don't expect to generate a lot of readership I can use this blog to as a sort of techno-diary to post my acquired angst. Be warned: I'm no Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones but I have had enough misadventures to make a lot of bad movies from good books. And speaking of movies - here is a quote from one I love to hate - "...these are a few of my favourite things...." (yes, I'm Canadian so I stuck a 'u' in the second trimester of a word)
Menopause - I hate it and it hates me. It's a mutual hate, like my first two marriages. Like my first husband, Menopause is a body batterer - it doesn't care where I am or what I am doing - WHAM! I start raining down sweat. Real handy when you go to a job interview and you're trying to make a good first impression. My potential employer sees nothing but a clean-up in aisle 7. The whole alien-taking-over-my-body thing happened faster than you can say 'Segourny Weaver'. My mind stumbled into a black hole, every body part between my knees and shoulders expanded and my skin looks like the aftermath of adolescence meets chocolate. Nuff said. On to ex-hubby no. two - a now nearly 60 year-old man who still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up. Selfish, unmotivated and indecisive - that's the emotional toll of menopause - guilty because it's all about me and guilty because it's not. For those of you who have not yet entered this first ring of purgatory all I can say is - you'll all be there - someday! For those of you already here - I've brought my own martini glass and it's five o'clock somewhere. For those of you already over and done with it....STOP LAUGHING.
Fat - see Menopause above. Yes, it's self-inflicted and yes, I got here one bite at a time. However...I've been told if I give up the HRT's then Meno ex's one and two will take over with a vengeance. But I've also been told that I will most probably drop the extra 40 pounds I've put on. Let's see...death by hanging or death by firing squad...???
My Third Husband - he's the source of a lot of my angst but he loves me. You really have to weigh what's most important to you in your life, especially when you hit 50. He works for the government. That's all I can say about him here. I could tell you more but then I'd have to...well, you know how the rest of that story goes. We're happy. That's all that matters at the end of the day.
On Being Unemployed - yes, I went back to school. Yes, I graduated with honours (there's that 'u' happening again) and kicked butt. Out of school three weeks and so far, nada. I feel like I've been dropped into the eye of a hurricane. Job Hunting blows! Interviews blow! Sending out endless resumes to people who don't give you the courtesy of a reply blows! Staying optimistic blows. Running out of money blows! I have no illusions about lottery winning. I've never been a lucky sort of person that way. I do, however, still have my sense of humour ('u'!). I believe in karma. I know the right job is out there somewhere. Hopefully it won't take me as long to find it as I've spent on finding marital happiness. I just don't have that kind of energy, courtesy of Meno-ex No. 1.
And now a closing line from my fav novel "GWTW" (Gone With The Wind for all you laypersons out there - yes, anyone who knows me knows I'm a rabid 'Windy')...
..."tomorrow is another day"...
Until then...
Menopause - I hate it and it hates me. It's a mutual hate, like my first two marriages. Like my first husband, Menopause is a body batterer - it doesn't care where I am or what I am doing - WHAM! I start raining down sweat. Real handy when you go to a job interview and you're trying to make a good first impression. My potential employer sees nothing but a clean-up in aisle 7. The whole alien-taking-over-my-body thing happened faster than you can say 'Segourny Weaver'. My mind stumbled into a black hole, every body part between my knees and shoulders expanded and my skin looks like the aftermath of adolescence meets chocolate. Nuff said. On to ex-hubby no. two - a now nearly 60 year-old man who still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up. Selfish, unmotivated and indecisive - that's the emotional toll of menopause - guilty because it's all about me and guilty because it's not. For those of you who have not yet entered this first ring of purgatory all I can say is - you'll all be there - someday! For those of you already here - I've brought my own martini glass and it's five o'clock somewhere. For those of you already over and done with it....STOP LAUGHING.
Fat - see Menopause above. Yes, it's self-inflicted and yes, I got here one bite at a time. However...I've been told if I give up the HRT's then Meno ex's one and two will take over with a vengeance. But I've also been told that I will most probably drop the extra 40 pounds I've put on. Let's see...death by hanging or death by firing squad...???
My Third Husband - he's the source of a lot of my angst but he loves me. You really have to weigh what's most important to you in your life, especially when you hit 50. He works for the government. That's all I can say about him here. I could tell you more but then I'd have to...well, you know how the rest of that story goes. We're happy. That's all that matters at the end of the day.
On Being Unemployed - yes, I went back to school. Yes, I graduated with honours (there's that 'u' happening again) and kicked butt. Out of school three weeks and so far, nada. I feel like I've been dropped into the eye of a hurricane. Job Hunting blows! Interviews blow! Sending out endless resumes to people who don't give you the courtesy of a reply blows! Staying optimistic blows. Running out of money blows! I have no illusions about lottery winning. I've never been a lucky sort of person that way. I do, however, still have my sense of humour ('u'!). I believe in karma. I know the right job is out there somewhere. Hopefully it won't take me as long to find it as I've spent on finding marital happiness. I just don't have that kind of energy, courtesy of Meno-ex No. 1.
And now a closing line from my fav novel "GWTW" (Gone With The Wind for all you laypersons out there - yes, anyone who knows me knows I'm a rabid 'Windy')...
..."tomorrow is another day"...
Until then...
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