{the pin it factor}

Do you pin?

You don’t?

You don’t know what  pinning is?

Let me explain.  There is this site called Pinterest.  It is the internet version of crack.  The site is a way to keep track of interesting things you find on the internet, as well as a way to pass them on.  You register with Pinterest, you get a little button on your browser that says pin it, and away you go.  You set up boards, or groups, to organizing the things you pin. Find the most amazing picture of Doctor Who you have ever seen?  Pin it.  You enter a description, then direct which board you wish it to go to, for me that would be “All things Doctor” and shazam, saved for eternity.  Best part?  It also saves the website you found it on.

The next bit is what is really brilliant.  Then it also gets posted so everyone can see it.  And repin it to their boards.  This also means that you can see what everyone else has pinned and post their stuff to your board.  I have learned to make my own clothes detergent.  My own febreeze.  Cool stuff.  If you find someone with the same twisted sensibilities as you, you can follow one or all of  their boards a la Twitter.

It is amazing.  You can sit for 3 hours, and do nothing but click your mouse, but you will feel like you have been SO creative. The backlash for me is that for every geek post,

for every funny saying,

for every pair of fabulous shoes

there is also a motivational poster of some kind.  All, I am sure, aimed at me.  Telling me I should be running.  I never run.  Ever.  Okay, if I was trying to get out of the way of a speeding car, maybe.  But apparently there are alot of people out there running.  And they need alot of motivation.  And I should wish I was one of them.

I don’t.  I really, really, don’t.

Of course, this nugget of wisdom is usually accompanied by a recipe that involves pasta and an inhuman amount of cheese.  Or some sort of chocolate thing.   Or some sort of beautiful, lovely, tasty delight involving Nutella.  Or some sort of cupcake.

Cupcakes are something I can get behind.  Which is why I have this waifish figure.

I do highly recommend pinterest if you are not already an addict.  You can discover things on the web you might have never known exsisted.  And I love any thing that can painlessly introduce you to the unknown.

Especially if it can teach you how you make your own laundry detergent for pennies a load.

And you know, cupcakes!

{i’m peri what?}

As I stare 44 in the face, my body is screaming at me that fertility is a thing of the past.  Not that this is a bad thing.  I have no children, nor have I ever really wanted any.  I have gotten a fleeting feeling when holding the little darlings belonging to my friends.  Nothing that would cause me to look into my husbands (from here on out he is the Rock Star by the way.) eyes and then watch him faint because I have decided to break a silent agreement we have had our entire marriage.

Although It might be fun to watch if I did.

But I digress.

Around 40 my shark week (apparently the shape of a sharks brain and the shape of a uterus is the same.) went from 28 to 21 days.  It also went from 4-5 days to 3-4 days.  Then I started getting these lovely wiry  hairs on my chin.  Oh, and lets not forget that the vj started getting dry.  Yeah, I’m having a real party these days.  Rock Star is living with an ever evolving species, of what we just haven’t figured out yet.  We are going to go with human…for the moment.

Now, shark week is acting up again.  I flooded, which for those not acquainted with this phenomenon is when you uh..gush.  Yeah, feels like you peed yourself, looks like you committed Hari Kari.  With a tampon.   Then about 3 week later I start spotting.  Which is sort of the opposite of flooding.

I became terrified.   I am one of those Americans that some Republicans would see die.  We fall into that category of both having jobs but only one of us has insurance.  And it’s not me.  I work in a florist with only 4 employees.  He works in a large company but it would still cost us more then we can spend to both be covered. So, of course I am picturing any manner of tragedy befalling us.

I don’t say anything for a few days.  Because you know, if you don’t talk about it, it will go away.  Maybe.  Then my addled mind realized something.  I asked Rock Star how long since I had my last period.  (I had to ask him because I have trouble keeping up with these things.  I usually walk into the room and announce that I am not pregnant.  He always remembers that.)  He replied it had been about 3 weeks.  Yep, this was not some uterus rotting disease.   This was what is called erratic periods.  The spotting stopped about the time shark week would have.

That was 10 days ago.  Yesterday I started flooding again.  Yea!  I have spoken to other women who have gone through menopause and they describe pretty much same thing.  Yes, I have made an appointment to go have things checked out just in case.  So yeah, another nail in the coffin of my fertility.

This here is what you call peri-menopause.  Actual menopause could still be 10 years away.  Menopause is when you haven’t had a period in 12 months.  I don’t think I am going to be one of those women who feel less feminine because I don’t have a period anymore.  There is a phenomenon among nuns when they go through menopause.  They become depressed, because even though they never were going to have children, the possibility was there, and when that disappears, they mourn it.

I have never wanted kids, so my femininity has never been tied to the miracle of birth.  Supposedly we carry the power that men secretly covet.  The power of life.  Yeah, okay.   Whatever.  My period has never made me feel powerful.  Never made me feel womanly.   I suppose it has given me peace of mind.  Peace of mind that I am not pregnant.  Peace of mind that everything is okay and in working order.

Perhaps I will miss it.  Maybe I will surprise myself and mourn.

God, sometimes I can be such a girl.