The Best Kept Secret Blog - And Then I Was Supposed To Get My Period

In my day we used a calendar and said a silent prayer but leave it to the younger generation to come up with a better way to determine when our period is due to arrive.

But Mon.thly.info, the brainchild of University of Chicago student Heather Rivers and described by Siri Agrell in an article in this morning's Globe and Mail, is an on-line site designed to help women track their menstrual cycle.

Kudos are certainly due to Ms. Rivers for her initiative but I'm going to guess she didn't talk to her mother before launching this site.

While it might be a straightforward matter for a younger woman to predict when her period will arrive, the algorithms involved in predicting a midlife woman's cycle rival in complexity only those required for launching the space shuttle.

To benefit from mon.thly.info, a woman is asked to enter the date of her last period along with the usual duration of her cycle. From there on in, mon.thly.info will predict when her next period is due to arrive. (We used to call that counting and amazingly didn't need high-speed Internet service to do it but whatever.)

Okay, so my last period was May 11th. I know this for a fact because it was Mother's Day and I distinctly remember thinking that not being pregnant at this point in my life was the greatest gift of all. So far so good.

Now, what is the usual duration of my cycle? Hmmm. . . . Do they mean what was the usual duration before I turned 45 or do they mean currently? And if they mean currently, how can I express "anywhere from five to 50 days taking into account a positive correlation between the start of my period and some minor disaster in my life ('This morning the washing machine broke, the dog barfed and then I got my period')" as a whole number? I'll just say 33 days.

Next, I have the option of being sent a friendly reminder when my period is about to start. A nice touch that allows me to be prepared with all the necessary supplies. In my case that equates to an industrial size box of sanitary napkins, three bags of chips and a pound of chocolate.

Well, I'm good to go on mon.thly.info. Check back in five to 50 days and I'll let you know how I found the experience. Although I already suspect I'll be e-mailing Ms. Rivers and suggesting she include some "midlife-woman-friendly" features. Things like optional automatic e-mails to husbands warning them of their wives impending mood swings and celebratory e-cards when the whole thing finally come to an end jump to mind.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - If I Squint I Look Like Cher

Something went horribly wrong at my most recent hair appointment. I went in expecting my usual "Starbucks blend" hair colour (warm chocolate mocha with a hint of cinnamon), but walked out with black locks and platinum highlights that made me look like a native American princess in a Disney movie.

Because I did not ask for this, I initially surmised that my stylist either a)hates me; b) struggles with language and has gotten the words "brown" and "black" mixed up; or c) was flirting with the girl who sweeps the floors and wasn't paying attention when he mixed my colour.

Or perhaps there's another reason.

So that this unfortunate mishap doesn't occur again, as well as to offer up a cautionary tale for my friends of a certain age who, like me, haven't seen their natural hair colour since Ronald Reagan was in the White House, I will dissect the salient events of the appointment in an effort to figure out where things went wrong.

The Pre-Colour and Cut Consult - Lost In Translation

J., my hairdresser, asks me what we're doing today.

"I want to look young, but not too young. I don't want it boring but not so edgy and over-the-top that I look like I'm trying too hard. Just make it really good in a hip-young-mature woman sort of way."

Obviously no problem here. It doesn't get much clearer than that.

But wait. I remember that J. has only been in Canada a little more than a year and English is his second language. Good chance he didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about.

Colour and Highlights - Special Delivery

Looking like I'm ready to receive transmissions from the mother planet, I sit with protective tinfoil wrappers covering stewing strands of highlighted hair.

My phone rings. My daughter has left her bathing suit in the car and if she doesn't get it NOW she won't be able to go swimming with her friends and she will DIE!

J. wraps my head in a plastic bag and a towel. Braving the stares of strangers, I walk to my car and deliver the tankini to my daughter.

Possible overcooked highlights.

The Rinse - My Left Breast

Kind shampoo girl rinses chemicals from my hair and throws in a scalp massage to boot. So skilled is she at the art of massage that I relax instantly and even doze off for several minutes.

Waking with a start, I realize my mouth has fallen open and I am drooling.

As I wipe my chin, I notice the shampoo girl, the manicurist, and several customers are staring at me. I dab at the spittle again but still they stare. Then I see that they're staring at something a little south of my chin.

I look down. The black salon robe I was given at the beginning of my appointment has loosened and fallen open. My sports-bra clad left breast is on display for the crowd.

Is it possible that the shocked and amused shampoo girl has not given me a thorough enough rinse?

Finishing Touches - Out Damn Spot

J. blots away errant hair die that has strayed to my face.

"You missed a spot" I say, pointing to three marks that spread across my lower jaw like the Malay Archipelago.

J. rubs and rubs but the marks remain.

"I think we've got it all," he assures me.

"Try again. Rub harder." J. humours me but to no avail. Then it hits me. These are age spots.

No problem with hair but make mental note to book laser resurfacing appointment with dermatologist.

The Blowout - If I Squint I Look Like Cher

Despite the professional blow-out, something doesn't look quite right but three hours of gossiping with J., two cups of coffee and bad overhead lighting has lulled me into a state of deep denial. I convince myself that if I reapply my blusher and perhaps squint just a little when looking at myself in the mirror, I can pass for a a younger version of Cher.

Possible problem getting everyone else to squint.

The Post-Cut Review - The Awkward Kiss

J. and and his fellow stylists tell me how great I look and how much they love the colour. I understand now there must be some special signal stylists give each other when they screw up really, really badly and need their co-workers to cover-up for them.

Buoyed by the compliments as I say my good-byes to J., I lean in for a European cheek kiss. I remember too late that J. is not European. He appears to have no clue as to what I'm doing and awkwardly embraces me in a bear-hug before beating a hasty retreat.

As I leave, I hear him telling shampoo girl about how his last customer was trying to come on to him.

Make note to only shake hands from here on in.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Playing The Hormone Card

I can't say I had never intended to use it but I had planned on saving it for just the right moment.

Like good dishes or giving up my virginity, I always believed it was something you held on to and used only when the situation absolutely demanded it.

That situation arose one day last month but now that it's been played, I'm questioning if I did the right thing.

I'm talking about, The Hormone Card.

It was an ordinary Saturday morning. I had just come down from the shower where I'd accidentally conditioned my hair with toilet bowl cleaner because my husband hadn't bothered putting away the cleaning supplies after his tour of duty as bathroom janitor. That same husband was now enjoying the morning paper while I proceeded to cook breakfast and dispose of the pizza boxes left out from the previous evening.

My youngest was engrossed in cutting up tiny scraps of paper like a crazed gerbil on Speed all in the name of "doing a craft" while the eldest demanded to be driven to the mall.

And the dog? She was busy coughing up unidentified foreign objects and coordinating phlegm on the recently cleaned living room carpet.

I cracked.

Suddenly I began hurling reprimands and demands like a tornado that springs up out of nowhere and takes no prisoners as it winds along on its path of destruction.

My family stared at me wide-eyed as I launched into a diatribe about being the only one who ever lifts a finger around this place. They were positively guilt-stricken as I issued my laundry list of all I do for them. And they appeared to be filled with remorse as I told them to count on me going to an early grave if they didn't start pulling their weight.

Once I had my say, I felt vindicated and calm. As quickly as the storm came up, it blew over. They, on the other hand, were left stricken and scared.

Nobody moved and in that awkward stillness I realized that maybe I had crossed the line. Chagrined, I decided there were only two options - beg their forgiveness for flying off the handle or play The Hormone Card.

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry everyone," I apologized. "It must be my hormones. You see, Mommy is perimenopausal."

Now, between you and me, at 46 I probably am perimenopausal but that didn't have anything to do with why I blew up that day. I live with slobs. They pissed me off!

But given the choice between coming off as a harsh and raving lunatic or a sad and pitiful middle-aged woman, on this particular day, Option B seemed the way to go.

And it appeared to be a good choice. Their relief was palatable. They could accept my explanation because surely there was nothing wrong with them. I saved a modicum of my dignity and my slovenly clan promised to try harder next time.

Sipping a glass of Merlot later that day, I began to wonder just how much I could get away with by blaming everything on menopause. I decided to embark on a little experiment.

The next day I went shopping. "Yes, I bought expensive new shoes," I told my husband. "You would too if your hormones were like mine. Want to make something of it?" He backed off.

I tried it with my children. "Kids, one day you'll have hormones of your own and understand what Mommy's going through. For now, just bring me another glass of wine. Oprah is on and I don't want to get up."

Everything was going swimmingly. I felt like I had discovered some super-powerful secret weapon that would serve my every purpose. That is, until the others began using it against me.

"Hey mom" queried my youngest one day, "do you think you have a big rear end because of your hormones?"

"Calm down honey. Don't you see you're not really mad about me watching golf instead of taking the garbage out and fixing the washing machine? It's just your hormones talking."

Things were going south quickly and I had to think fast. I made a quick trip to the drugstore and returned with a large bottle of Vitamin B complex. Explaining to my family that these would be just the ticket to keep my mood swings at bay, I downed a couple of the capsules. "There. All better!" I pronounced.

They looked doubtful but took me at my word.

For my part, I learned to be more discriminating about when to blame my behaviour on hormones. I resolved to play The Hormone Card only when it was absolutely necessary. And when situations required that I trot out this most powerful tool, I'd simply tell me family I had gone off my meds.