Darling Ones,

Yesterday I zoomed with the Tea Ladies. When one of them told a story she introduced as bound to warm the cockles of our hearts I said, “I don’t have a heart. There’s just a crusty chicken McNugget in there.”

Last week when I was chatting on the phone with EM I shouted, repeatedly, “I AM FLOUNDERING.”

I am fucking cranky and miserable. And today it got even worse because not only do I have an excessively virulent strain of the Februaries my body is acting like it’s getting its period.

You know, that bodily function I haven’t had to deal with since April? It seems to be back and with a vengeance.

I spent most of today tipped over on the couch with cramps, a simultaneously upset & ravenous stomach, and a brain full of static & horny wasps.

No fair. I am fifty. This bullshit is supposed to be over by now. And really to strike now, in Feburary? That’s some extra-special bullshit.

I already have 438 things making me cantankerous and grouchy. I do not need any help from hormones and biology. FUCK ALL THIS NONSENSE.

Please send chili-cheese dogs & chocolate cake.

Thanks,
Jodi

P.S. Wanna know one good thing? On Friday, I’m attending a virtual talk given by Hanif Abdurraqib. I’m excited. I finished re-reading A Little Devil in America for the third time last month. I love that book so hard. I tried to read They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us, but I was too fucking cranky to enjoy it. My life is garbage. for real.

P.P.S. Despite every thing I took on two new substantial work projects this week. I have a hard time saying no. I also have a hard time not being flattered by people who like what I do and want to work with me. That makes me feel good even when my uterus is being a crusty bitch. I’m not 100% sure what a “pick me girl” is and I’m too blech to google it, but I bet I’m one. All I want in life is to be someone’s first choice.

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Hi Darling Ones,

After a seven-month absence I am very displeased to announce the return of my period. Six days ago. It’s still going strong, with zero signs of letting up.

This is a real deal, crime scene in my underpants, cramps, cravings, and murder on my mind kind of period. Not the kind of spotty, wimpy, last gasps of an aging uterus my previous period was back in September. Instead, I’m dealing with the menstrual monkeyshines of a uterus that thinks it’s still young & virile and primed to pop out some progeny.

Silly uterus, those kinds of tricks are for kids.

Every time I get my period after I reach the six-months without an incident mark I feel like I’ve failed at spinstering. Menopause is the last thing I need to check off the spinster list.

Never-been married — CHECK
No children — CHECK
Greying hair — CHECK
Cat, yarn-based hobby, lives in a house made of cookies and candy — CHECK, CHECK, and CHECK.

I’m 97% sure once I go twelve consecutive months without bleeding I not only get to officially declare menopause, but I finally take my true form as a bog witch.

Spinster bog witch is the ultimate goal. It’s like rescuing Princess Peach, but better because all the hexes and curses I got locked and loaded will be unleashed upon all the fuckers who had the temerity to cross me. Quake in fear termeritites, none of you fuckers will ever have dry shirt cuffs for as long as you live.

Aside: When Sister #2 was here last week and I was whining about my derelict ice maker she asked me who I pissed off and if they might have cursed me with a constantly malfunctioning ice maker. If it was you, I am sorry. Please, please, lift the curse. I beg you.

As my menses continues to annoy the shit out of me after all these months, I keep being a little amazed that I put up with this bullshit for the last 36 years and never, not even once, did a murder. Though, I have committed untold massacres in my heart.

Bleh. I’m gonna go eat a salad and wish it was not a salad and probably sob through the competitive dominoes show because this not-quite bog witch knows how to party.

Your bloody valentine,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

I am writing under the influence of nachos. Despite having a very late lunch with BFK for CSA Thursday, I decided at 7:30 if I didn’t have nachos I would probably perish from this Earth. I went full on with these fucking nachos too — chorizo and two kinds of cheeses, refried beans and jalapeños, sour cream and extra salsa. When I make nachos I do not mess around. Remarkably, I had all this stuff in my kitchen (thanks past Jodi for freezing all that leftover taco meat).

Now of course, I’m slipping into a nacho coma and my stomach hurts a little bit. But there’s a Kenny Rogers special on TV right now and I wanted to write about my fucking period.

That’s right, I got my stupid period like some sort of young lass with a uterus that primes itself to give life. It is total bullshit. I haven’t gotten my period since February. I was six months into the menopause slide. Allegedly you are not officially in menopause until you go twelve months without a period. I say allegedly because I’ve read a bunch of stuff about menopause including The Menopause Manifesto and really the medical community knows very little about menopause and everything is just a guess. It’s stupid. Basically anything you feel after the age of forty they chalk up to being fat and/or perimenopausal. Thanks, that’s helpful

I know society wants me to fear menopause for that is when I will take on my ultimate form as a bent, old, sexless crone of little use to men and the rest of the planet. I have decided to ignore that particular form of patriarchal nonsense and really embrace aging.

I’m old. It’s amazing.

Even though I’m annoyed about the period situation I decided yesterday to really indulge in these last few bleeding sprees. Yesterday I ate approximately sixteen meals and was still ravenous. I’ve slept in and napped with reckless abandon. I spent hours zoning out in front of my favorite episodes of Dawson’s Creek, and I’ve had more orgasms this week than I can count. One of the joys of being a person who menstruates is you get really horny when you’re bloated and angry/sad/frustrated, probably peak sexiness, right?

This whole perimenopause/menopause situation reminds me of a great line from Maggie Nelson’s Argonauts, “She did not get the memo about being beyond wanting or wanted.” I’m hoping I missed that memo, because I still want and I want to be wanted. Boy, do I want to be wanted.

So there you have it. I’m old and horny and tired and legit cranky because I want to eat chocolate chip cookies but I’m too full of nachos.

Being a human is so fun,
Jodi

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Hey Darling Ones,

It actively pisses me off that I love the song “Yellow*” by Coldplay. Just like “Creep” by Radiohead and “Crash Into Me” by the Dave Matthews Band.

It would be much easier if I was apathetic to it like the rest of their music** and then could forever place them in the bucket labelled “shit I don’t care about.”

Other things in that bucket: hobbits and all things hobbity (which some how encompasses dragons, Game of Thrones, and Renaissance Fairs) zombies, vampires, gummi anything, Kardashians, Hamilton, anyone with the title vlogger, Harry Potter, sushi and seafood in general, Star Wars, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

You should know I woke up fantastically cranky this morning and even a little angry. In fact, I woke up cranky twice. Once at 2 a.m. and then for real at 7:45 a.m. Both times the second my eyes popped opened my brain said, “Ohhh, we’re cranky.” Right now my brain is full of black scribbles and snorts of derision. I can only listen to grunge music today because the fuzziness and underpinning of anger and general air of dissatisfaction matches my insides.

Is this just a spoke in my menstrual cycle? Am I slowly losing my mind? Could this be my final metamorphosis into an evil supervillain? I suspect this is hormonal, but who knows? The best thing about perimenopause is it turns you right back into a teenager again with the unpredictability and, in my case, a zit on my chin. The indignity of being a human with a uterus is never ending.

Back to yellow. Lately the mechanism within me that desires things has decided to desire all the things in yellow. Just today I was perusing the Internet and pondering Would I be happier if I wore a pair of bright yellow headphones every day? How about if I slept on yellow sheets and made myself a zig-zaggy yellow blanket and surrounded myself with everything yellow? No wonder I’m fucking blue all the time all my things are blue. Yellow must surely be the cure for what ails me, right?

We’ll find out soon enough.

Also, also, ALSO, while I am whining aimlessly, I think I got the fungus gnats again. AGAIN! Those fuckers have been dive-bombing my morning coffee lately and I am displeased. I couldn’t tell which of the Sadness Garden denizens might be harboring the winged beasts, but I suspect it’s Peggy and Stan (the Red Prayer plants). I’m already in the process of defeating the teeny fuckers. They will not take out my Sadness Garden like they did the herblings from long ago.

the sunshine of your life,
Jodi
 
*This song is treacle and cliche and yet whenever I hear it my heart gets heart eyes and turns a little gooey with love. This is the exact definition of the heart wants what it wants.
 
**To be perfectly honest, I also love Willie Nelson’s cover of “The Scientist” but that has more to do with Willie than with Coldplay.

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Dear Darling Ones,

My absolute favorite part of Matthew Sweet’s song “Sick of Myself” comes in at about 3:14 when you think the song is winding down and he says in a kinda growly way, “One more time.” Gah, it just fucking sends me. I’m sure I’ve listened to this song 92,184 times since it was released and every single time that “one more time” comes up my heart gets a little zoomy with happiness, and when I’m singing along I kinda half close my eyes, grin, and shake my head and say it along with him.

This isn’t even my favorite Matthew Sweet song (“Someone to Pull the Trigger”) but my body sure as hell loves the shit out of it. The older I get the more I pay attention to my physical reactions to music.

Anyway, last night The Youths came over for $6 sandwiches from Pig Stuff. The Youths are what I’m calling all my niblings and their romantic partners. For the most part this will mostly be referring to Max & his girlfriend Sonya, since they live in Minnesota and since Sister #3 has cut off us off from the Tibbles.

For the records: The Olds are my parents, Uncle Danny, and any of their various siblings. The Mids are me and my siblings, and well, I just told you who The Youths are.

Maxwell has been super adorable since he moved out. He misses me and Wendell a bunch, which makes me feel important and cared for.

Last night I confessed to The Youths that I had acquired a serious TikTok addiction since I last saw Max (on Sunday). Then I proceeded to pepper the rest of our conversations with “Well, I saw this on TikTok. . . ” Now you will never have to be sad that you can’t hang with me IRL because you’ll know that I’m super annoying and say things like “I saw this on TikTok” with a totally serious face and tone of voice.

Today I continue to procrastinate like a moutherfucker. I’m not entirely sure what my problem is. Maybe I want to work all weekend? Maybe it’s because I have an actual, factual real period and that’s super pissing me off. I’m forty-fucking-eight ain’t no reason I need to continue dealing with the monthlies only now that I’m in perimenopause it’s the randomies. Bleh. Also, it kinda pisses me off that the WordPress or Chrome or whatever spellchecking apparatus is at work in this typing box doesn’t recognize perimenopause as an actual work. Motherfucker? Okay. Tibbles? Sure. But fucking perimenopause?

These kinds of letters are my new thing which I will continue to write until I get bored or distracted or annoyed. As I’ve mentioned before I’m kind of preoccupied with sleeping away into the ether unnoticed, but at least if I write a letter a day my website will know I existed.

Right?

One more time,
Jodi

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