Hello From Clusterfuckistan, Part 3

Hi, remember me?

I haven't blogged much since The Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Election. I've mostly been eating. You know, doing my part. 

But the other day, after mailing in my ballot for the midterms, I decided I'd check in with you. Because when everything goes to shit and people are so much worse than you could ever believe and the mean fuck in the White House is only the face of the problem, just the tip of the iceberg, and your vote isn't even going to count because of gerrymandering and voter suppression, well, it's time to circle the wagons and say howdy to your old friends.

So. Hi. How are you?

Yeah, me too. Sorry.

Nothing much new has happened other than, you know. Life in Clusterfuckistan.

Well, I turned 64 since our country fell to the GOP. I hardly celebrated my birthday because shit is so fucked up. Plus, I pretty much eat cake and look Death in the eye every day of the year so what's the point. 

I'm older than everyone else now. That's so weird. I'm the oldest person everywhere I go.

Wait, that's not true. I was the youngest person in the recovery room after my cataract surgery. The nurses came down the row of beds to check on us and asked us our names and dates of birth.  I was the only one with a birth date later than 1935. When I called out my answer - "1954" - the lady in the next bed whispered, "So young."

That was nice. 

And get this: I am now bumped down from "once a year" to "every 3-5 year" on the Pap smear guideline, which means my cervix isn't on anyone's front burner anymore. Can't even get a Pap and a shmear these days. 

Oh, and I am finally over wearing bras. Well, ha ha, not so much "over" them. "Under" them is more accurate. My poor boobs. These days I think of them as the sweet old couple who lives downstairs from my neck. They're quiet, keep to themselves. No loud parties. They smell kinda musty, but nice. They're all  squished and cattywampus by mid afternoon like they've been napping on the couch watching their stories.

I now wear those newfangled bralettes that are all the rage. It's about as effective as walking around wearing my old bras around my knees, but I am all about comfort in the Age Of Trump. Because just waking up and remembering that the GOP is still in power makes it hard to breathe. Add a snug underwire bra to the mix and I'd be dead in under an hour. Every morning.

The thing that I wanted to say is, I have no Plan B if the midterms fuck us. Maybe Big Pharma should get on that pill before Tuesday. Midterm Plan B. Erase all trace of the election and minimal cramping. Not, of course, covered by insurance. 

Okay, so, see you after Tuesday.

Or in 3 years. 

Or in 7 years.

Fuck.

 

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