Old People Shit: Menopause, Turkey Necks, and the Dreaded FUPA

What the hell is going on under here?

Something women have to look forward to when they get older is menopause. A lot of women mourn the loss of their fertility when the babymaker stops working, but I for one welcomed it. I never had kids and didn’t have that “once more for old times’ sake” yearning, and I always had the hormones from Hell and everything that went along with them--epic PMS, horrible periods, and migraines that laid me out for days at a time. So I was really happy to see that shit go bye bye.

But there are things about it that are not so great.

For one thing, a lot of women gain weight. I was always very slim. Then I hit the wall of menopause head on--BANG!--the airbags deployed, and they never went down. I used to be able to eat anything and not gain an ounce; I could eat a side of beef, belch up a hoof, and gain nothing. Now fat sticks to me like baby shit sticks to a bedroom wall. If I so much as smell something greasy or high sodium, I blow up like a tick.

I gained it all in the abdomen, through the bust, and under my chin, where I have amassed an impressive collection of secondary chins, should I find myself in need of one at some later time. My ass is still as flat as a board, thanks to genetics on my mother’s side, but I make up for it out front. 

My father's side of the family is responsible for the chins. They are extreme overachievers in that department. Not a graceful swan neck to be found in that lineage, just a bunch of turkeys. 

No relation of mine.

There we go.

Our house backs up to a canal, and I swear to God I had a bullfrog sing me the song of his people when I was on the patio one day. Believe me, nothing will motivate you to put down the ice cream like being serenaded by a horny bullfrog that picks you as the object of his affection.

Hey baby, feelin' lucky tonight?

And what really pisses me off is that if Matt gets on the scale and doesn’t like what he sees, he just eats one less potato chip with lunch for a week and he’s down five pounds. If I got lost in the woods with nothing to eat but leaves and berries for a week, I might lose five pounds--but four of those would be from the giant load I’d dump the first time something rustled the bushes after dark.

Then there's the dreaded FUPA.

If you don't know what that is, it's the saggy, apron-like thing that now hangs between your hips where your nice flat belly lived before age, receding hormones, and gravity got ahold of it and gave it a yank. The technical name for it is the panniculus, but it's more commonly known as the FUPA, or Fat Upper Pubic Area (or Fat Upper P***y Area, if you prefer).

Yeah you are.

Personally, I like to call it the Fat Upper Pudendal Area. Nobody really uses the word pudenda anymore, and I think that's a shame. It's a really fun word.

Old People Shit: CRS

 

Getting older means I can’t remember anything anymore, which in turn means the chance I’ll stop talking mid-sentence and stare into space for an awkward period of time is not zero. So if I’m talking and suddenly fall silent and you look at me, and it’s like gazing into the eye of a chicken…that means the computer in my head is buffering while it figures out its next command.

To be honest, though it HAS gotten worse with age, my superpower has always been forgetting what I’m doing while I’m doing it. So it might be a little harder for the people close to me to tell when my cheese actually does begin to slide off my crackers. At some point, I’m pretty sure my life is going to consist of wandering in circles from room to room scratching my head and farting and mumbling, “Fuck…what the hell was I about to do?” I'm dangerously close to that now. I consulted Dr. Google about this, and he tells me I have a classic case of CRS (Can't Remember Shit).

I’m on the trifecta of old people medications--blood sugar, cholesterol, and blood pressure--but one thing I haven’t started taking is something for my memory, even though God knows I could use it. I don’t know…am I the only one who thinks that seems like some questionable shit?

I think most people have seen the ads for Prevagen. But if you haven’t because you’ve been hiding in your spider hole since 2020 hoarding toilet paper without a TV, it’s an over-the-counter supplement that’s supposed to enhance brain health. The main ingredient is something that “was originally discovered in jellyfish”. What the...? Anybody else wonder how THAT came about? I want to know who the scientist was that first saw a jellyfish float by and thought “That fellow is destined for MENSA. We must cut him up and find out what makes him tick”.

You also hear all the time that “60 is the new 40”. If that’s the case, would somebody please let my body know? Because when I was 40, I could get up in the morning without waddling like a duck for the first twenty steps and without my knees sounding like a goat munching on a tin can. My other superpower these days is feeling like I just lost an MMA fight when all I actually did was walk from the bed to the bathroom. Parts of me hurt now that I didn’t even know I had when I was 40. I can sit and read for an hour and need a trip to the chiropractor afterwards.

Now if I could only remember where his office is…

Old People Shit: the Anatomy of a Shart

 

WARNING--POOP POST AHEAD. But really, would you expect anything else?

I am a person "of a certain age". That age is over 60. And, Jesus, seeing that on the page is jarring!

There are three rules of aging, and the older I get the more I realize they are valuable to keep in mind.

Never pass up a bathroom.

Never waste an erection.

Never trust a fart.

I know, you giggle at that last one especially. But in my experience, everyone--EVERYONE--at one time or another has gambled on a fart and lost. If you haven’t, you now have something to look forward to. And the older you get, the more likely it becomes.

See, you have sort of a sentry down there called the pectinate line that is supposed to let you know what’s coming down the pike. You feel pressure building up, and that sentry goes to work analyzing (analyzing? asks the 12-year-old 😁) what it is, and whether it’s safe to release it into the wild, or if it’s best to hang onto it and find a bathroom. But…like other parts of your body, it's prone to malfunction when you get older, and can tell you an untruth that will quickly turn you from the life of the party into a social pariah who's heading home early and wishing for a change of skivvies all the way.

Or you’re driving your car, singing along to the radio, enjoying a beautiful day, and you lift up to do the one cheek sneak and suddenly your destination becomes home, the shower, and a change of clothing.

And sometimes that little bastard takes an unscheduled break and doesn’t even let you know when a fart is imminent, let alone that it might be something else. The nerve! Or maybe lack thereof...

I was shopping with my very elderly grandmother once, and she broke wind so loud that the guy stocking shelves down the aisle snapped around fast enough to give himself whiplash and just stared in amazement.  Between her rectal sentinel being off duty and her ears basically being ornamental at that point, I don’t think she was even aware she’d done it. He and I had a good belly laugh, and she just went on shopping.

Eating when you’re older becomes an adventure. When you're young, you can go out with friends, drink beer all night, eat pizza, nachos, or fried, greasy whatever, and maybe wake up a little hungover. You take a couple of aspirin, drink some water, or maybe a little hair of the dog, and go on with your day. But try that when you get older and your gut gets more finicky about what you send it. Every time you go out and see something on a menu that looks good, you have to weigh the odds of it using its power for good or evil. It can be a crapshoot. Sometimes literally.

Eating when older--especially if you’re drinking alcohol too--is like the science experiments you did in school where you mixed a bunch of stuff together and you knew there'd be a reaction, but you didn’t know what it was going to be or what form it would take. Would it be a solid, a liquid, or a gas? Who knew?

You're familiar with Publisher’s Clearinghouse, right? Well, think of eating and drinking when older as Digestive Clearinghouse--instead of showing up at your front door with balloons and a giant check they knock at your back door with cramps, gas, and a lifetime supply of embarrassment.

I just won Digestive Clearinghouse!

And high fiber foods are healthy, but I had to stop eating super high-fiber cereal for breakfast. I would eat a bowl and then throw some coffee on top of it, and an hour later I’d be the underwear bomber. That was really embarrassing when I was still working, especially when the old Fart-O-Meter in my arse suddenly started losing its sensitivity.

And I don’t know about you, but I can go from zero to “oh SHIT” in record time these days, especially if I'm under stress. If something nerve-wracking happens to me, my gut has to get involved, and that usually means issuing the “evict all tenants immediately” command. Seems as though my fight or flight instinct always decides flight is the best option and I should lighten the load first.  

And while we’re on this crappy topic…this applies to everyone, young and old. Why do we see whole kernels of corn in shit? And whole peanuts? We know we’ve chewed that stuff. Does it re-assemble down there? And why just those two things?

This is what I think about when I wake up in the night. Not the existential stuff like “why are we here?”, or “where do we go after we die?”. But “why is there whole corn in my doody?”. I’m really a deep thinker, people. Really deep. Like...ass deep. Aren't you glad you're following my blog?

Of Cats and Catapults

 

“Cats are clean animals”.

We’ve all heard that one. And, generally, it’s true. That’s because anything cats don’t want on or in them, they remove and put on YOU or something of yours. Dirt. Fur. Vomit. Drool. Poop smears. Dingleberries. Cat litter that gets stuck between their toes. Eye boogers. Real boogers.

There are two rules of living successfully with cats:

Rule Number One: Never walk barefoot in the house. Ever.

Rule Number Two: Never pick up anything off the floor with your bare hands.

That thing that looks like a leaf or a wood chip? It’s never a leaf or a wood chip. It’s something that’s going to go squish between your fingers and smell hideous. That’s the rule no matter what end of the cat it came out of. Step around the thing and get a tissue to pick it up with. If it does by some miraculous turn end up being a leaf or a wood chip, go buy a lottery ticket, ‘cuz it’s your lucky day.

When a cat pukes, it will never be on a surface that’s easy to clean. It will always be on your favorite chair or place on the sofa. Or your bed. Or that expensive rug you saved up for and splurged on (and, really, WHY did you do that with cats in the house anyway? Serves you right!). If there’s a mile of bare floor between your cat and the one throw rug in the room when the cat decides it’s time to heave, the cat will make it to that rug. Every. Single. Time. Might as well call it the throw-up rug.

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the cat will choose to puke on you. Generally that happens in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure the word “catapult” was invented by someone who woke up to a cat hanging over their face winding up to yak. It’s horrifying and requires that the cat be launched as far away from your face as possible as quickly as possible.

Alarm clocks should sound like that, shouldn’t they? That "eck eck eck" is guaranteed to bring you to full wakefulness with no snooze feature needed. Think of all the times you wouldn’t have been late for work if you had a clock with that feature!

Then there's waking up to the sound of a distant outside-the-bedroom puke during the night and the ensuing calculations as you try to figure out whether or not you can make it to the bathroom without your slippers. Stop that now and refer to Rule Number One.

Yup, that's barf in the window.  We called it the Vomit Snake.
I have no idea how it was produced intact, but at least it missed Matt's shoes.

My personal favorite is when a cat jumps out of the litter box and scoots its ass across the floor to get a good wipe. It’s such an undignified look, using the front legs to propel the back half along. Leaving that lovely contrail of shit on the carpet. When I see that, I always thank God for toilet paper and the opposable thumbs with which to grasp it. Can you imagine if humans had to wipe like that? Not only would we look absolutely absurd, but the most popular carpet color in the world would be Shit-Brindle Brown with a Corn Contrast. It would be on backorder everywhere.

The other fun thing is to watch cats get the shit zoomies after an especially satisfying dump. They burst out of the sandbox like Superman leaving a phone booth and proceed to fly through the house spraying poop dust everywhere as they celebrate the miracle of moving their bowels. Again, can you imagine humans doing that? “Yippee, I feel lighter than aiiiirrrrr….!!! Confetti, I need confetti, where’s the confetti? Oh wait…here’s a dingleberry—that’ll do!”

Duck, Duck...F**K!

Welcome back! Did you think I had abandoned this little project already? I know it's been nearly a week since I last posted. But, hey, it's summer, which lasts about five minutes in these parts-- so we have to get our arses outside and do summer stuff while we can. Which means less time for arses in chairs writing.

Having the backfill finally done after the seawall installation feels great. But it also means a huge portion of our yard was left bare with some grass seed thrown on top in hopes that it would germinate in July. I decided more needed to be done to give it a fighting chance, so off I toddled to the garden center last week to get some straw for coverage. I hoped that would help keep moisture in and birds away from the seed. The starlings, house sparrows, and other miscellaneous little brown feathered things had descended on it like flies on a cow patty as soon as the backhoe was loaded and the truck left the neighborhood.

I didn't realize straw mulch was available in so many forms these days. It's really quite remarkable. You can buy it in traditional bale form, or get long rolls of finely cut "sticky straw" blankets to cover large swaths of ground and keep your seed from washing out on slopes. These are held down with biodegradable stakes (sold separately, of course). Or you can get this:

Well sure, why not? It's got seed in it to add to what was already laid down, it has fertilizer in it, AND finely cut tacky straw mulch that tends to stay where you put it. Plus it comes in these handy bricks with handles and everything. 

I carted eight bags home from the garden center, spread it around, and quickly realized that it wasn't going to be nearly enough. So back I went the next day for four more. Nope, still didn't get me there. While I was at a car show on Saturday, I dispatched Matt to get me another four.

That time I overestimated. One and a half got me the coverage I was looking for. So we have a lot of extra now, which we might need because some of it is already disappearing--and I think we're going to lose more. Dammit.

We live on water, which means we get visits from Canada geese. I have decided I really kinda hate Canada geese. They're noisy, they're mean, and they drop dookie that rivals the size of German Shepard turds. And they travel in large packs, which makes them even more noisy and aggressive, and ups the poop level to astronomical levels.

This year, strangely, we've had very few. Early in spring, a couple pairs staked out territory on the neighbor's large corner lot just long enough to piss me off when they started honking at sunup every day. But then they disappeared. No families with goslings swimming through our canal like usual, and not even a lot of flyovers. Matt and I remarked on several occasions that they were weirdly absent, both at home and at his place of employment, where they normally gather in large numbers around a pond. There is an epidemic of bird flu this year (because why not, since Diseases R Us these days), so we wondered.

Well...they're baaaack. Laying down grass seed was apparently the clarion call. I have no idea where they've been all this time, or how the hell they found out about this wonderful new food source, but all of a sudden they've arrived, and in droves. I blame the starlings; they're sketchy little fuckers. They probably flew up and down the river announcing that the new Bird Buffet was open on canal number two. So while we, foolish humans that we are, thought we were laying a new lawn, what we actually did was open up the Golden Corral for cobra chickens.

While I was out on Sunday, Matt texted me a picture of geese in the yard and canal; and not just mom and pop and a few kiddos. Like, the whole extended family had gathered for a reunion. It took me a minute to realize what was going on, and then I responded with OMGWTFGETTHEMTHEHELLOUTOFTHERE!!! He assured me he had been trying, doing his best human scarecrow and running them off, but they kept coming back. And we've both played yard police several times since, running at them flapping and yelling like a couple of lunatics on hallucinogenic drugs.

Today I finished laying the seed, and there were no geese in sight when I started. But about thirty minutes in, I looked out and saw this:

It was a goose armada, gathering and waiting for their chance to storm the beaches of Dimondale. They were clearly watching and waiting for me to leave so they could enter the dining room. So I made sure I stayed out there a really, really long time, raking, watering, weeding, whatever I could do to make sure that didn't happen. They finally lost interest and paddled off. But they'll be back. I bet there was a scout hiding somewhere to call the others the minute I left the premises.

On a positive note, the seeds are already beginning to sprout in some spots. If you look closely, you can see the bits of green poking up through the straw. So maybe seeding in July isn't a lost cause after all.

And I have a nice clear area along the water's edge where I plan to put the native wildflower garden I've been wanting to do for awhile now. 

I started a small one last year to experiment with different plants and see if I could find some deep-rooted ones to help stop the erosion along the seawall. I chose a variety that would naturally grow waterside and didn't mind having their feet wet when the water was high. Overall they did very well.

Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the seawall really needed to be replaced, so there went the garden. I did save seeds, though, so if they're still viable I can get started on Building Back Better.

But now that I have more space, I need to decide what that's going to look like. Because even though I've had months to plan the darned thing out, do you think that's what has happened? I kept back-burnering it. I am really good at coming up with ideas, but the planning and follow-through often are, shall we say, somewhat lacking. And once I get into it I find out I really don't know as much about what I'm doing as I thought I did, which tends to throw my plans off even more while I Figure Shit Out.

The trajectory looks something like this:

How I think it's gonna go down.

How it actually goes down.

Well, native plantings should be more forgiving than a fussier garden while I fumble my way through. Probably. Hopefully.

I'll post updates. Unless it really goes sideways, and then you might never hear of it again.

And if anyone has a goose-chasing dog they can loan me, I promise I'll take good care of him!

Make America Gag Again

 

Happy day after TheDayWeBlowShitUpBecauseWe're'MericaGoddamit! Everyone still have all ten fingers?

On Sunday, the day preceding that infamous day, this little gem showed up in my Facebook feed:

I've cropped it to only show the flag, because it is someone's house, and I don't really know this person except from the jewelry-making world, but she posted it along with "Happy July 4th from my house to yours ". And got way too many likes and comments like "Beautiful!" and "Gorgeous!".

Ugh. Ugghhh.

Isn't regular MAGA enough? Do we really need an Ultra version? What's next, Supersize? (Jesus God, please...NO.)

I have to say, it was the most disturbing thing I saw online that day--and I had just watched a video of a python eating and then vomiting up a whole goat.

Hey, that just ran--er, slithered--across my feed too. I certainly didn't go looking for it. But since it was right there...

Show of hands...anyone have bulimic pythons on their 2022 bingo card? Not me--but why the hell not? Nothing really surprises me anymore. Disappoints, yes. Surprises...no.

#UltraBarf

Christmas In July

Well, whaddya know? It's Christmas in July here at the Ottinger abode, because the seawall company actually did make it here on Friday to finish the job! Ho ho ho!

It feels hot right now, but be aware that Hell may actually be freezing over. For anyone who's headed there in the next little while...you're welcome. Grab a popsicle at the door.

Actually, it wasn't an entire work crew, but just Stoner Surfer Dude and one of his hired helpers. He was wary of me after a rather heated phone call we had during the winter and then ghosting us for months (again, part of The Rest Of The Story, which will probably/maybe eventually get told). I had to leave for work before they finished up, but Matt texted me at one point to say he'd had a pretty pleasant conversation with S. S. D., during which he told Matt "I thought when I got here your wife was going to be mean to me, but she wasn't, she was real nice."

Hey, what can I say? I may talk like a sailor, but I still believe in kindness and diplomacy. Like the saying goes, you catch more flies with honey. 

But do you really? Hmmm... In my experience, I've seen far more fly-covered turds than fly-covered honey puddles. But maybe I just walk in the wrong places. 💁

Anyway, here are a few before and after pictures of the yard. And now the REAL job for us begins, as we attempt to keep grass seed moist enough to sprout in July. It only took me five hours of moving sprinklers today. And a portion of the yard will become a larger version of the native garden I attempted last year before we realized that, yes, we really really did need to replace the stupid wall, and it all got torn up.

Merry Christmas and Happy Independence Day, everyone!

Wall They or Won't They aka Smoke Gets In Your...

The seawall people are coming today!

Or so we're told.

Actually, we've been told that a LOT in the past few months. But now the truck is supposedly on the road and headed toward us!

The seawall was actually replaced late last year, and THAT is a post (or two or three) of its own. At some point. When I can relate it without experiencing PTSD symptoms and jacking my blood pressure so high that my head pops off and flies around the room going "pffffttt" like a balloon that somebody blew up and released. Because a wildly zooming, farting head is the last thing we need in a year when human rights are disappearing, the former president is being exposed as a treasonous fuck who threw hamberders at the wall and attacked his security detail, and the planet is about to ignite and take the whole sorry lot of us down with full support of the SCOTUS. Oh, and that pesky COVID thing is still hanging around like the drunk uncle who just won't leave when the party's over.

This is the backfill and yard restoration that was supposed to happen, according to our contract, thus worded: 

As soon as weather breaks / ground thaws we will quickly get back to you to make everything look great over there.

I know this is Michigan, and our weather is unpredictable, but the ground has been thawed for some time now. And our contact person there, whom I shall refer to as Stoner Surfer Dude or SSD for now until I decide it's time to blast his name around, has been giving us deadlines and then ghosting us since late April. And that has ONLY been when I have badgered him for information first. If I hadn't initiated contact, I doubt we'd have heard a word from him. More on that particular trait of his in my follow up story that may or may not happen depending on how much my blood pressure can endure.

SSD is piss-poor at communicating and customer service doesn't exist in his world. But, by golly, is he an expert at blowing smoke! I've had so much smoke blown up my ass in the past three months that you could put me on a stage and squeeze me around the middle and I could provide the fog effect for a fairly lengthy rock concert. Hell, feed me some beans first and light a match and I'll provide the pyrotechnics as well.

So the truck should be here soon. Unless the driver sees something shiny along the way. He had better not, because I'm about at smoke capacity.