Smells like…

Drink of choice: Stloi/ Dolin on the rocks with a Pinxto of blue cheese manzanilla olives and guindilla peppers. I know, it sounds like a hot mess and my Basque friends might not approve, but its quite good. Music of choice: Nirvana; Nevermind. Top five shit. Full disclosure: my top five comprises about 50 recordings. Still.

So the drugs are working. Thank you drugs. I will not die from or with prostate cancer. Two months in a row of undetectable PSA’s. For all intents and purposes, the cancer has been defeated.

But, at a cost. Chemical castration. (Loving me some Dave Grohl). What happens? Well this.

I am a menopausal Bitch in a Man’s body. Hot flashes, etc. well established, but wait: There’s more.

I had my most recent injections a week ago Thursday. Five days after is the nadir of the cycle. It slowly improves from there. Just when I start to feel better, time for the next one.

This week I had a huge job with a client. Big Time big boy shit. Three day colonoscopy. Rough stuff. I dd real well. We passed with a grade of “B.” Unheard of for a first time audit.  We did it. Yay. etc.

On day two I get a voicemail from another client that owes me money. New CFO, never met him, past due of 6 months; ten large. Reason to be feisty on my part. (New Music: Roy Orbison: Anthology. Yes. Top five).

I, for reasons only known to the gods, return his call. After Day Two of the audit and enough vodka to tranquilize a large mammal. “Cause it was Day Two.

I can hear “East/West Coast Millennial”in his voice. “Hi Jay, I want to come to some resolution, blah, blah, fucking blah, happy to offer you 50 cents on the dollar.” Not a great start. Remember here- I’ve seen every Tarantino film, can recite Godfather I and II by heart and, had life taken a different turn, might have auditioned for a part on The Soprano’s.

Please also remember, I am a castrati. The effects are at their peak. I am a Menopausal bitch from Queens. On a really bad day. Or fill in your personal blank here to define Menopausal Bitch, And yes I know its sexist. Until there’s a new vocabulary, I work with what Shakespeare had at his disposal.

My response to condescending millennial boy: “Go fuck yourself.”

Pause.

Suffice there was a tit for tat, a realization on my part that maybe I went a bit hard on College boy’s ass, an attempt at an apology, a refusal to accept, some panic that I just blew 10 large, etc…

So its a side effect. There have been other incidents. One involved a DQ Peanut Buster Parfait and a soiled vehicle plus tender nerves. “Nuf said (Red Wine now. its good).

I think that when its all over I’ll have to invoke Steps Eight and Nine. Small price to pay.

“They were the best of times, they were the worst of times…”

Peace, Love and thanks for reading, keeping me in your thoughts and being you. We are all special, you more than most.

Post Script: The owner of the company reached out to me this afternoon. An amicable resolution is within reach.