Burning Down the House?

I really should be focusing more on arrangements for the move. Or at least washing the breakfast dishes and running the vacuum. I could put a load of laundry in to run while I type.

All of which is a lot more useful, at the end of the day, than sitting around thinking about my sweaty elbows.

Maybe they are "sweating" elbows.

I dunno. All I know is I woke up in the wee hours of the morning and the crooks of my elbows were positively wet.

Ewww.

Who gets sweaty/ing elbows?

I don't suppose anyone really wants to read about my menopause symptoms. At one point I thought that perhaps the blog would be more of an Everywoman thing, with the emphasis on my age group. The location would just be an after-thought.

The (Peri)Menopausal Mom Who (As It Just Happens) Lives in Moscow.

But that angle never really got any traction, as the kids say. Rather than hitting those Comedic Female Moments We All Can Relate To, it seemed instead to generate a room full of readers who coughed nervously, crumbled their programs nosily, and stared at their shoes uncomfortably. Amidst microphone feedback.

But it seems like there should be SUCH good material to be mined there.

I've seen other blogs with a regular Too Much Information feature. TMI Monday or something like that.

Sweating elbows.

That probably qualifies as TMI.

Or maybe it's a DIY problem.

Maybe they are merely the product of an over-heated Moscow apartment (it is a balmy -3C outside this morning, yet the heating is still cranked for colder temperatures). Maybe the Humorless French Doctor Across the Street was right: maybe I have not yet had a proper hot flash.

The Spouse always said I was wrong not to explore a career in HVAC.

I have a friend from childhood who recently relayed the story of how she woke one night. She toddled off to the bathroom, as so many of us do, and while there, became convinced she was dying of a heart attack or worse.

"I was burning up," she told me. "Suddenly, just BURNING UP. I couldn't move. I started crawling back to the bedroom, calling for my husband to come help me because I was certainly dying!"

Husband was just as mystified, and, well and truly frightened for her well-being, offered to call 9-1-1, when it hit her. She wasn't suffering from a heart attack.

It was a hot flash.

Call me callous, but that's a funny story.

Speaking of heat, here is a Devil Cat shot for you.

Crooky is definitely in her Climbing Phase. This Being-On-The-China-Cabinet is a recent thing, and I don't care for it at all. I suppose if she were an outdoor cat, she would be getting stuck in trees. So in that case, I prefer the china cabinet. But I am not looking forward to her knocking the whole thing down.

Okay. Enough procrastination. Housework Waits for No Woman.