Month: November 2014

Sleepless in Sheffield

“I’m a woman of a certain age and I love an open window!”

These are the words that, these days, greet bemused colleagues and kick off any meeting I’m ever in – usually accompanied by an unseemly dive for the chair nearest said window. You see, I’ve always known I was hot. ;). But now I’m red-hot. And not in a good way. I’m talking about hot flushes (flashes, for my American cousins :)). Potatoes have got nothing on me – my hot flushes are so goddamn NUCLEAR you could run Blackpool Illuminations with my emissions. The heat fair radiates off me like I’m some kind of organic convector heater. I could wire myself up to the National Grid in times of critical power shortage. I might too, I’m that civic-minded.

potato clock

My hot flushes are so violent, so sudden, so HOT that I can be totally fine one second, and the next resemble a drenched sunburn victim with sweat literally trickling down my face and rolling off my chin. Not a great look on the beach, never mind in an important stakeholder meeting. And a look that has my colleagues staring in a kind of disgusted fascination as I go into full-on meltdown. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do but sit tight and hope it passes quickly.

But I don’t suffer in silence – oh no, everyone knows about it. Why keep it in, I say. It’s uncomfortable, and unpleasant but entirely natural and I refuse to be embarrassed – so I demand as much sympathy as I can get. Particularly from men, the jammy gets. They don’t have to go through it, so I don’t spare them any of the detail. It’s a fair tradeoff, don’t you think?

And don’t get me started on the sleepless nights. I usually know as soon as I lay down when I’m not going to sleep; and if the heat’s not bad enough my racing heartbeat will put the kibosh on anything resembling restful slumber. Toss, turn, swear, cry. Covers off, covers on, covers, off, covers off. Rinse and repeat.

The joys of menopause, eh – it’s the gift that just keeps on giving. Brilliant.

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Hair today, gone tomorrow #2

Age has indeed played a cruel, cruel trick.

My once luxuriant bush is no more. YupIt’s not the bountiful bush it once was; in fact it’s thinned out dramatically, and the glossy, chocolate brown lustre of youth is rapidly fading to grey. *Sad face*. It would be bad enough if this were the extent of it, a couple of grey nether hairs here and there, but no – it’s much, MUCH worse than that. Far from growing the kind of exuberant bush that would put a 1970’s porn star to shame as I reach middle-age (and which I’d secretly quite looked forward to), I have developed what I can only describe as ‘(fe)male pattern baldness’. But on my nether regions. I have lost much of the hair down the middle of my pubis, but kept it on the outskirts. Which, as you’d imagine, looks horrendous.

So I have to shave it quite extensively, leaving just a pathetic bit of bum fluff on show at the front. But my man (who loves oral like the dear departed Bill Hicks did – how lucky?!) has been begging me to leave it au natural, a la 1980s – him being nostalgic for his teenage years when girls didn’t have smooth, shaven groins like creepy Barbie dolls. He thinks (bless) that I shave my bits because I’m self/sub-consciously buying into the current trend for bald, hairless ladyparts, because that’s how I think I should look. Hah! I can’t bring myself to tell him that the nearest we’re going to get to a retro bush is in fact the 1970s, and I’m not talking about the spectacular porn-star arrangement as mentioned above. giphy

No, sadly, I’m talking about the “Max Wall”, the “Bobby Charlton”, and Pennywise, the evil clown from It.

(Ok, the last baldie in this tragic list isn’t from the 70s but if the dutch cap fits…).

Definitely time to consider a merkin, methinks – wonder if ebay do them..?    

Eyes down

Adverts for online bingo are weird, don’t you think?  Plenty of people dancing – with dogs, with each other – swimming, partying and generally having a ball. Hey, bingo is FUN!

But no poor sods sat in front of the dim, grey light of the monitor, crying in their pants as they gamble away the last of the housekeeping.

Funny, that.

Hair today, gone tomorrow: #1

Right then. Let’s talk about hair. Hair down there.

But first, let me put this out there: I’m fancying a merkin.fuzzy-heart-merkin

You see, in my younger days, I had a pretty decent bush. Not too thick and not too thin. Relatively easy to control, although it did meander slightly down the insides of my thighs (and perilously close to my knees in the winter)…but anyway, nothing a sharp razor wouldn’t fix.

But the razor rash was a swine. So one day I decided to try waxing. By god it hurt. A good friend of mine is a beauty therapist and she did it for me. How she laughed and called me names as I screamed and squirmed and swore like a navvy – and the more I screamed and swore, the more she convulsed with laughter (she’s not particularly mean, I was just pretty inventive with my swearing). Of course, laughter renders you momentarily weak (think about your knees buckling when you laugh really hard), so instead of whipping the hair out at the speed of light (and therefore marginally less painfully), she was actually wrenching it slowly and agonisingly out of my bits like some kind of sadistic beauty-therapy-based torturer. Which is every bit as painful as it sounds.

waxing some eecards

Unsurprisingly, we had to abort this particular mission, and decided to try again another day. So we did. I still screamed and cursed, but she didn’t laugh, and we eventually got the job done (thanks mainly to the small bottle of vodka I necked just before we got started).

Or at least we thought we had. On closer inspection –  both of us peering down together at my blood red, angry-looking groin – we realised that instead of pulling the hairs out, they had actually been ripped off at the roots. My super-pubes were so strong, so deep-rooted, that they just refused to come out. Hence all the super-pain I’d been in. See?? But I tell you, she’d given them a bloody good going over: I went on holiday two days later with extensive mottling/blue-black bruising all over the insides of my thighs, which actually resembled huge, juicy love bites. Classy. Although to be fair we were in Ibiza so I didn’t look that out of place, but even so…