I was just whining about how my Doctor appointment is today and how I get so damned nervous right before.  I can only assume this is a natural reaction to going to so many the last seven years.  I do my pre-op labs today, (EKG, Chest X-Ray, Labs) and find out about my MRI.  That horrible horrible MRI.

The thing is, I am not worried about the result.  But just knowing I have to go see a doctor gives me the heeby jeebies.  I start breathing too quickly and it feels like a small elephant is sitting on my chest.

I have decided for all of us who feel this way about doctors we should be able to check a box saying so on one of the 45 forms that have to be filled out.  If this box is checked, then when you pay your co-pay you get a Xanax.  Nothing major.  Just a small dose reward for getting there, looking half way normal, wearing matching socks, and for having to pay for 24 hours of anxiety.  Literally.  I pay money to feel this icky.  I think if this were an option I wouldn’t have any issue going.  I see it as very Pavlovian.

This is Ivan Pavlov.  No wonder his dog wouldn’t come to him without a snack.  Relax guy…


Time to start googling “Crutch Rentals” and “Compression Socks.”

Good times.

As Always,

Woman on Pause

Photo Credits:

Rock the Bells…

I was reading the site, “Jezebel” yesterday and ran across an article about how the teflon on non-stick pans can cause Early on-set menopause.  All the commenters were, “Woot woot bitches, bring that shit on!” or “I can’t wait until I get this and my periods are gone, yay!”

I read through them, actually flipped off my iPad, tossed it onto my bed, and exclaimed very loudly, “Fuck you bitches you have NO CLUE.”

And they don’t.  While I am now off the ledge of my disdain I do recognize that they don’t realize exactly how crappy it is. 

Do I miss my period.  Hell Fuck no. 

Do I miss sleep? Hell yes I do. 

There is no sleep to be had.  A solid three months now and I haven’t slept through the night yet.  Maybe once, but I had a couple of cocktails and I don’t think that counts.

I can deal with the hot flashes. (Hot flashes being the day equivalent of menopausal torture.)  I mean, they are nauseating in their severity and I have to dress in layers and fan myself with random items, ie mousepad, plastic kitchen place mats, my hand, the mailman, whatever I can grab.

But at night, you are defenseless against the God forsaking soul crushing heat that comes over you and causes ever square millimeter of your skin to pour sweat.  POUR.

Note: Not me.  But this is how soaked I am from these damned things.  She makes it look sexy to be sweaty.  I make it look like I ran a 10K in the Mojave, then just put my clothes on afterwards and went about my day

This blows.

Last night, my dreams were syncing to each night sweat.  I dreamed that when I got home, depending on how many bells were hanging on my house that was how bad the flash would be.  One day one bell, another day three…

Then at the end of the dream, I came home and there were thousands of bells stringed up around the outside of my house.  I gasped, woke up, and realized my hair was soaking wet.  Entirely naked, threw the covers off, took my poor sleeping husbands hand and said, “FEEEEEEL THIS, aaaaaaaugh, this is horrible, aaaaaaugh, fuck me I’m hot.” As I drug his hand over my head, neck and cleavage.

Poor guy.  This man deserves a medal for putting up with this mess.

Is there a theme or cutesy way to end this blog? 


Just know, as we speak I am sweating and my skin throbs and if I have to take my scissors and cut out my medulla oblongata or thyroid, or pituitary or whatever it is that is jacking up my internal thermometer then I may just have to do that.  I am 33 and still, as always, WAY too young for this shit.

Just sayin.

As always sweaty,

Woman on Pause

*Fans self*

Picture Credit: