I have Musical Tourette’s. I am not sure if this is a real condition, however Its doubtful. I finished this sentence and just out of curiosity I googled Musical Tourette’s. Guess what? just like Bob Tash, it actually is a thing. Or in in the words of James Brown, A Thaaaaaang. Below is the description as quoted by the Urban Dictionary:
An artificial form of Tourette syndrome in which the singing or speaking of a line from a song by one individual produces the spontaneous and not entirely voluntary singing or speaking of further lines of said song by another individual. This phenomenon is most often seen among people in good moods. Who knew? I just googled the meaning of Urban in the Urban dictionary :City-like. From the Latin word “urbs“, which means “city“.
So I guess without knowing it I am U.R.B.A.N. And you lot reading this are a step closer to becoming Urban too; you’re welcome. You may be wondering what the hell this has to do with the Menopause? Each title of my blog has so far been the title of a song. A song that has popped into my head just as I sharpen my quill, dip it in ink and put it to paper, or alternatively a song that I have woken up to that day. My Singing Tourette’s however only happens on random days at random times. It drives some of my work colleagues nutty and provides entertainment for those who appreciate a little madness. Only now, I don’t feel so mad. Which is great considering the title of today’s blog was going to be ‘Crazy’. The track I woke up with this morning, was Phil Collins. Oh, sorry I didn’t really explain, in addition to my daily musical interludes I also wake up most days with a random track in my head, don’t know where they come from and they can be anything from Beyoncé to the Bay City Rollers. It’s only ever one line, continuously on a loop. A well-planned exorcism is required to banish it back to camp Hippo. The thing is some of these tracks I don’t recall ever having heard before, but I must have right, otherwise where do they come from, the Hippodrome? Hilarious. The relevance of this rambling is this; the happier the song the better the mood that day, well that is my theory. I’m seriously going to start writing these tracks down for proof of concept. I don’t remember yesterday’s track, I just remember waking up with a particular line, as usual on a loop in my head and thinking. ‘what the f*** ‘? Guess what? The rest of that day’s events followed in pretty much the same theme.
Event number one; I stayed over at the in-laws the night before, just me on my own with Ian’s mother. Now I don’t know about you lot but Lady M has delightfully delivered another disorder to deal with. IBS. I won’t go into the detail of IBS, however you can go from constipation to self-combustion within minutes and seconds. When this happens it is not pretty. Anyhoo, there we were alone in the house. First time ever in ten years we haven’t had Ian as an interluder, ( I don’t think Interluder is an actual word) but given my previous success with the Urban Countdown Conundrum, its staying put. In the morning I had not long been up and was nervously waiting for Ian to arrive back, feeling as anxious as a first time father in a maternity ward. I needed to go! I had done my best at delaying the inevitable, gone to bed early, slept in late, avoided breakfast and any hot drinks. But I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I needed to poo. Before you judge or ask the inevitable, why was I so bothered. Well let me give you an idea of where I was staying. Think Hyacinth Bucket mixed with Lucy Liu and you’re getting close. Ian mum is fab; I adore her, she is just different. Her standards are so high and she has her own very unique way of doing everything, different variations of tasks you and I would just do. It is a military operation just folding the bed sheets. And she had just been in the bathroom; cleaning it. The knowledge of this along with their only being two of us in a very quiet house was too much for my already twisted bowels to cope with. I HAD TO GO. So I did. And as expected; without giving the gory details that none of us really need to visualize. The eagle didn’t land, it nose-dived into the water, head first then belly-flopped causing massive waves. There was no reverse thrust, trust me. I spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom afterwards; cleaning. Once satisfied that all traces were gone I returned down stairs content that I had eradicated all of the remnants of my colonic calamity. Suddenly I was subjected to a shrill sounding Barbara. Genuinely concerned, I bolted up the stairs panicking, preparing myself to see a fallen figure, slumped on the floor. What I was greeted with was a face so stern it sent me hurtling back to the headmaster’s office thirty years past, twenty lashes impending. I had missed a bit. And I was to clean it up now. If you’re trying to picture my mortification, think Carrie when she gets her period. Not even close. Mortified. Then Ian turns up, takes me into the front room for a telling off. I had left the hob on at home, returning into the kitchen the words, ‘are you in trouble Mollie, well, we can’t all be perfect all the of the time’ said Barbara In her best sing-songie-sucks-to-be-you voice. I was out of there faster than the road runner after necking a bag of amphetamines.
Event number two: Easter Sunday; popped in to see my grandkids on the way home. Just the tonic I needed, always cheers me up and a chance to drop off Easter gifts and laugh about this with my son. The daring delights of a two year old (well nearly two) and a good old laugh at yourself was just the therapy required to erase all memories of ‘poo-gate’. Baby girl was asleep, my son was cooking tea, grandson on the Xbox. Nothing unusual here. Until my son told me off for being noisy as I’d wake up the baby. The floodgates opened I couldn’t hold back the tears. I had to leave. And that’s what I did. I ran out, snots streaming, sniffling noises with tears streaming down each cheek. Don’t ask me why, I have no clue. I got in my car and I drove home. Picture Cruella screeching round corners, tantrum-like-tears replacing anger-filled-fist-shaking. Can you see it? Awful image isn’t it. Don’t ask me why, I have no clue. I am a Sherlock missing a Watson, Cagney minus Lacey. A Starsky short of a Hutch. No idea.
Event number three: Oh yes, not content was I with two equally embarrassing, gut wrenching insane episodes. I went for the hat-trick. I am the menopausal equivalent of Eric Cantona, Soon my family will be singing ‘ Oh AH Mollie’s barred ’. After returning home from #2, the second episode, not the actual #2, I was a little restless and lonely so I called my sister to see if she was home. She would be back in couple of hours, why didn’t I pop over then for some much needed sisterly love. Great I thought, I’ll pop over I can give her all the gory details, she could tell me I was a knob, then we could put the world to rights over a glass of wine. What could go wrong? I drove over P.J’s and bottle in bag. When I arrived her house was full, nothing out of the norm as she has two sons and between them seven grandkids and a scattering of step-grandkids. Her eldest had been out celebrating his partner’s birthday and they were well-oiled. Now I am not a snob, nor do I look down on anyone, however I don’t swear a lot and never in front of children. My sister’s family do, most of the time I close off to it. Lots of people swear in everyday life now. That’s is how it is. And I can normally, remembering normally is vital here, shut myself off to it, unless it is the C word. I hate it with a passion and truly believing there is never a need for it. Ever. My nephew and his partner have a different view. And yesterday I chose this time to advise that using that word in front of their kids was not nice. They both took it in good humor and ignored me anyway. Which is/was fine. What followed was someone’s view of the name ‘Grandma’. “Wouldn’t call my mum Grandma, Grandma is for old C***’s and people who think they are posh.” Now old me (not age old – previous me) would have bantered back, “Old am I, posh am I“? LOL, bants, that type of thing. New me. The person I have become. The person I’m taking a look at now. She didn’t, she left. Or should I say Cruella left, tyres screeching, tears streaming. Please don’t think bad of these people they’re not bad people, but the person I was yesterday thought they were. Thought they were all against me. Deliberately doing it to tip me over the edge. How they could be I will never know, none of them even knows what I am going through. Most of it’s in my head. I have a real funny image of passing the same family on the A1 as I journeyed up and down in floods of tears, eyes like Alice Cooper; hair like Cher on a bad day, brain as foggy as Ozzy Osbourne. Them looking on bewildered as this creature, tears, snots and mascara everywhere, chugged up and the down the motorway relentlessly. The mother saying “darling hasn’t that lady passed us twice today?” What did I do? I came home put on Bridget Jones and ate a tub of ice cream. Don’t judge, It was the one full of protein and only 8 points on Slimming World. Sobbing and scooping thinking everyone involved in my day’s debacles were all against me. Deliberately doing it to tip me over the edge. How they could be I will never know. None of them even knows what I am going through. Most of it’s in my head
I will give you a little insight into how my head is working right now. It’s a bit like Korea, North vs South, Democracy Vs Dictatorship. I am South Korea, I love a bit of democracy and usually I make all decisions using a sound body and mind. Weighing up all pros and cons until the votes are counted. Lady M however she rules by dictatorship and when she gets her chance to rule, us democrats have no chance. Lady M instills images of Imelda Marcos. Whereas I feel I am akin to Emily Davison. Who knows maybe Emily was in the throes of a personal summer when she sacrificed her life, jumping in front of the King’s horse at the Derby? Obviously I am nothing like a suffragette, although I do like to think that I would have been one if I had been born of that time. And I can only hope that if my little blog here helps one woman understand a little better what she is going through then that is a good enough donation for my part in any women’s cause.
What’s all this got to do with Musical Tourette’s? Well here’s my theory. I have concluded that if I am singing out loud at work, that’s a good thing right? According to my mate ‘Urban’ that means I am in a good mood. Surely this should be encouraged, not ridiculed or suppressed. And if I wake up with song in my head and think ‘what a shit song’ then I am going to have a shit day. Like yesterday, in more ways than one. Absolute shit-fest. Reflecting on yesterday’s events. I woke up with a shitty song in my head. Poo-gate, Baby-gate, and then Grandma-gate followed through. Then today I woke up with Phil in my head. I feel like I am ‘ taking a look at me now’, and most of the time there is, ‘just an empty space’. And like the song, ‘You’re the only one who really knows me at all’, this is me singing to me by the way, not you, I mean I can sing for you if you want, if I work near you there is a chance I have. However most of yesterday’s events will have been modified at the time by Lady M, manipulating my thoughts as she does. On a normal day none of this would have even scratched my physic surface, they would have been brushed off faster than a wasp off a window. I can only hope that once Lady M fucks off back to her ramshackle mansion I imagine her living in, I can do a Curtis Mayfield. And ‘ Move on up’ .