Friday, November 16, 2018

Sneak Peek: Elaine Ambrose's New Memoir, Frozen Dinners

     I'm very excited to share with you today an excerpt from Elaine Ambrose's new memoir, Frozen Dinners: A Memoir Of A Fractured Family. I've been waiting a long time for this book to come out, and now it has! Like me, Elaine is a humor writer, and I have throughly enjoyed reading her humor books, but the memoir intrigued me because it is unlike anything she has written before. There's so much good writing here, and I can relate to many of Elaine's experiences as well as her family dynamics. I loved the book, and I think you will, too. But don't just take my word for it---check out the excerpt below and order your copy today!

                                     THE QUILT

Irritated clouds of old gray dust swirl behind my car and settle back onto the patches of scruffy
sagebrush as I drive a back road into the village of Wendell, Idaho. I turn down 4th Avenue
and stop in front of an insignificant old house where my family lived before my father became rich. Decades of decay and neglect are exposed as cheap vinyl siding sags on the outside walls and dead vines hang on crooked trellises over weathered boards thirsty for paint. I stare at the window of my former bedroom and wonder if it’s still nailed shut.

I drive two blocks to the Wendell Manor and Nursing Home. Before I get out of the car to visit my mother, I follow a familiar routine: I pull the jar of mentholated cream from my purse, unscrew the cap, and dab the pungent ointment into both nostrils to mask the odors inside the nursing home. Despite the best efforts of the janitors who continually clean the facility and open the old windows on frigid winter days to exchange stale air for fresh, regular visitors anticipate the pervasive smells of bleach and urine and take necessary precautions. The analgesic rub originally was designed for temporary relief of aches and pains, but the ritual of using it in my nose enables me to enter and greet my mother with compassion. Sometimes she doesn’t recognize me, and that leaves an ache that no balm or medication can soothe.

The building is a hundred years old and so are many of the residents. My father was born there in 1928 when the building was a hospital. After it became a nursing home, my grandmother died there, curled into a fetal position after several strokes. My eighty-seven-year-old mother occupies a tiny room down the hall. On good days when she can concentrate, she turns on her CD player and listens to her favorite artists: Lawrence Welk’s orchestra, Tennessee Ernie Ford, several religious selections, and her collection of big band music from the 1940s. She can’t remember how to use the remote control for the television, so the music is her daily companion.

Her room is simple. Furniture consists of a single medical bed, two antique nightstands from a home my parents once owned in Butte, Montana, her music table, and a wardrobe closet. Beside the unused TV sits a life-sized, wood carving of praying hands, a gift from my father after she “lost that one baby” seven years after I was born. Family pictures line the walls, and after she forgot our names I added colorful name tags to each photograph. There is a pendulum wall clock, perpetually tilted and ve minutes slow. Two bookcases support scrapbooks, large-print novels, assorted knickknacks, and her Bible. A stained-glass dove hangs in the one window, and a smiling cloth doll in a frilly dress perches on the bed. A calendar on a small table notes that she is scheduled for a shower twice a week and her hair is curled on Wednesdays. My mother once lived in a mansion on a hill. Now she has one room with a private bathroom.

The room is tidy except for the scars on the corners of the wall where her wheelchair has rubbed as she maneuvers to get into the bathroom. She is completely incontinent, even after several
failed surgeries to correct the problem, but she still attempts to get to the bathroom, often with disastrous results. If she falls, she pushes the call button hanging from her neck and the staff comes running to help and then lifts her back into her chair. They tried attaching an alarm to her chair so they would know when she moved out of it, but she stubbornly continues to attempt to stand. It’s that feisty spirit that keeps her alive. Though her body and mind are weak, her heart and motivation remain strong.

The rules at the nursing home are strict but understandable. No hot plate, no candles, no refrigerator. Her scissors were taken after she accidentally stabbed herself and needed stitches. Her three moments of daily adventure come when she wheels herself to the dining room for meals. She usually declines the games of checkers or Bingo after lunch and returns to her solitary room after finishing a typical meal of meatloaf, warm vegetables, and soft potatoes with creamy gravy. She has been a widow for twenty-five years and is well-accustomed to living alone. I visit at least twice a month, and she has a regular group of friends from her church and from her women’s association who stop by with cards and small gifts.

I enter her room with a cheery “Hello, Mom” and place a vase of owers and a new air freshener on her table. She sits in her wheelchair, too weak to walk after breaking her back and her hip in separate falls. She looks sweet. Today’s outfit is a comfortable sweatshirt covered with appliquéd flowers, black knit pants, and sturdy black shoes. And imitation pearls. Always the pearls. She has a strand of real ones but hides them in a drawer because she says they are “too nice to use.” She glances up, focuses on my face, cocks her head, and then her eyes widen with a look of anticipation.

“You’re finally here,” she said. “I keep watching for you.” 

“Yes, Mom,” I say as I kiss her cheek. “I’m here.”

“Did you bring soup?” she asks, her face hopeful.

“No soup today. It’s too hot outside. I promise to bring you some potato soup in the fall.”

She loves my potato soup, made with new spuds, fresh cream, browned sausage, celery, onions, spices, and mustard seeds. One of her favorite Bible verses describes how virtuous people can move mountains if they just have faith as small as a mustard seed. Her mountains haven’t budged despite a lifetime of adding countless seeds into every recipe.

I smile into the weathered face, take her eyeglasses and clean off the smudges, gently reshape the bent frames, and ease them over her ears again. She often falls asleep in bed wearing her glasses so they become contorted in various angles on her face. Today, her mood is agitated, and my filial  offering of fresh flowers and clean, straightened glasses does not soothe her.

She leans forward and whispers, “ They took my quilt!” 

“Your grandmother’s quilt?” I ask, looking quickly around the room. At almost every visit she rues the loss of one thing or another and every time the item is never really gone, just moved from its usual place.

“Yes! It was on my bed. And they took it.”

I know this expertly crafted quilt, hand-stitched by my great-grandmother in the 1930s. She used one-inch scraps of my mother’s baby dresses to patiently sew each section and bind and pad the cover onto white cotton material. The quilt remained in my mother’s cedar chest for decades until I took it out and placed it on her bed in the nursing home. I thought it would make her feel more at home but she had been alarmed about using it.

“No, Elaine, put it back in the chest. I don’t want it out because it’s too good to use.”

“But it was made for you,” I said. “Why not enjoy it?”

“Because,” she said with an unexpected tone of firmness, “someone will take it."

The quilt looked at home on the bed, a colorful and familiar splash in a drab environment. I didn’t fold and store it as she requested. I wrapped her bed with the quilt, smoothed the center, and tucked in the edges. But now it was gone, just as she predicted.

Rather than acknowledge the possible theft of an old, hand-stitched heirloom, I comfort my mother and suggest that maybe the staff lost it. More than fifty residents live in the nursing home and the beleaguered workers do their best to feed and care for them as well as wash their laundry. I can only hope this was the case here, and that my great-grandmother’s handiwork remains somewhere inside this old building.

Gently rubbing her stooped shoulders, I try to sound reassuring. “I’ll go look. Be right back.” As a precaution, I slip the jar of mentholated cream into my sweater pocket.

I find the head attendant pushing a portable shower chair on her way to the shower room. For bathing purposes, the invalid residents are undressed, lifted onto the chair, and sprayed with warm water before being dried, dressed, and returned to their rooms. The staff attempts to treat each person with kindness, but the orderly system doesn’t provide attention to the resident’s dignity or personal needs. My mother hates shower day.

“Excuse me,” I interrupt the attendant. “Can I talk to you about my mother’s missing quilt?”

“Gotta go, hon,” she replies. “You should talk to the director.” 

The attendant disappears into a room and I hear her cajoling a woman named Mildred to get ready. Mildred doesn’t want to go. The attendant closes the door and I assume the shower will soon take place. I turn to find the director’s office. We’ve never met because she’s new at the job, and my first impression is that she’s in her late twenties. My mother was the town’s matriarch before this woman was born.

“Hello, I’m Elaine, Leona’s daughter,” I say, stretching out my hand. 

Miss Evans looks up from behind the piles of paperwork on her desk and sighs as if to acknowledge another family member with yet another complaint. She nods but doesn’t shake my hand or ask me to sit.

“My mom’s quilt is missing, and I need to find it. Do you know where I can look?”

The director is young and has no idea why this quilt is so important. She also has no clue that my mother, the feeble old woman in Room 17, was once the matriarch of the town, or that a gentle pioneer woman patiently weaved tiny stitches through bits of cloth by light of a kerosene lantern.

“A quilt? Well, is her name on it?”

“No,” I reply. I’d thought about that when I placed it on her bed but hated the idea of marking the delicate fabric. “I didn’t want to write on the quilt.”

Miss Evans shakes her head and sighs again. “I can take you down to the laundry room,” she says. “You can go through all the nameless stuff.”

Nameless stuff. I wince.

Heels clicking on worn linoleum, I follow her through several hallways, down two steep staircases, and then down a ramp into the basement. Carved into the ground a century ago, the dark and dank room would never pass any official inspection today. Electrical wires hang exposed overhead, an old boiler sits useless in the corner, too big to extract, and several industrial washing and drying machines hum and rattle in another corner amid waiting lines of burdened baskets. Several bare bulbs hang overhead, casting low shadows in the corners of the windowless room.

“There,” she says, pointing to six long tables burdened with mounds of limp clothing and blankets. "This is where the nameless things go. It might be in there. Let me know if you have any trouble.” 

And with that she leaves me alone in the basement surrounded by rejected artifacts...... 


Elaine Ambrose is an award-winning, bestselling author of ten books and a popular humorist, public speaker, and workshop facilitator. Her books have won six national writing awards in the past four years. Publishers Weekly reviewed Midlife Cabernet as “laugh-out-loud funny!” and Foreword Reviews wrote that the book was “an argument for joy” similar to Erma Bombeck. Her book, Midlife Happy Hour, was a finalist for 2016 Foreword INDIES Book of the Year and won two writing awards. Her bilingual children’s book, The Magic Potato – La Papa Mágica, was selected by the Idaho State Board of Education for the statewide curriculum and won the 2018 Moonbeam Children’s Book Award. Her memoir, Frozen Dinners, was released in November, 2018. One of her syndicated blog posts became one of the most-read posts in the history of The Huffington Post. Elaine lives and laughs in Meridian, Idaho. Find her books and blogs at

Friday, November 2, 2018

Welcome To The World, Alessandra!

     On Thursday, October 25th, my second granddaughter was born, and what a glorious day it was! Welcome to the world, Alessandra Harper Lira. Mom got through surgery just fine and Dad is over the moon happy. We all agree that Aless looks most like her daddy right now, but she DOES have the round cheeks of a Doyle baby. She has a healthy appetite too, which doesn't surprise me in the least since several of us in the Doyle family tend to eat like Vikings (nope, not naming names!).

     I fell in love with Aless the minute I laid eyes on her, as did her big sister Isabella. I think these two girls will always be close sisters, and I can't wait to see what life has in store for them!

     Everyone has been asking for photos, so there you go. And there's plenty more where these came from!

Proud big sister!

Poppi and Alessandra

Sleeping Beauty

Those Doyle cheeks!

Nonnie with Aless

The eyes of an old soul

Can you feel the love?

     We are truly blessed with the birth of a second grandchild. I pray that there will be many, many more in our future!!

Friday, October 19, 2018

Fly On The Wall: The Endless Celebration

     Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall group blog postings, hosted by Karen of Baking in a Tornado. Today, four bloggers are welcoming you into their homes for a glimpse at what goes on behind closed doors.

     The past few weeks at the Doyle abode have been busy indeed. As promised in my last Fly post, I  have some photos from my daughter's baby shower, along with pics from my vacay in St. Augustine and a lovely birthday dinner celebration with my family.

     The games played at the baby shower were INSANE. One was a baby bottle beer drinking contest (the men really appreciated that one), another involved wrapping people in "diapers" made from rolls of toilet paper, and then there was my personal favorite---twerking with a tissue box filled with ping pong balls strapped to your butt. No, I did NOT participate, but I couldn't stop laughing.

     My daughter received so many lovely gifts, but before this baby comes next week, I need to load her up with some Carter's outfits and some other cool kids' gear. Her c-section date is Oct. 25th, and I'm ridiculously excited to welcome my new granddaughter into the world!

     Last week the Hubs and I went on our annual trip to St. Augustine, Florida, for an early birthday celebration (Yes, I am the type of person to extend my birthday celebration for an entire week). But it wasn't just about the birthday---this was truly a celebration of life after my recent health scare. The whole ordeal was an eye opener and made me appreciate my blessings even more than I already do. Cliche as it sounds, life really is short and we need to make every minute count.

     There's just something special about the historic town of St. Augustine, and how it always feels like home to us whenever we visit. We spent our time exploring museums, shopping in some cool hipster boutiques, and eating our way through the town's finest restaurants, but I have to say that my two favorite activities involved a horse-drawn carriage ride and what I jokingly refer to as our "clown car" rental. There's nothing like zipping around the backroads of a city in a tiny, yellow convertible with a loud horn.

When we returned home, we gathered the family and went to a dinner celebration at one of my favorite seafood restaurants. After all the eating and drinking I've been doing this past week, I think it's time to renew my diet vows....but not until I finish this last box of Godiva chocolates....

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? Check out my latest on Weekly Humorist: "A Sampling of Brett Kavanaugh's Home Brewed Beers."

Buzz around, see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:

Baking In A Tornado        
Menopausal Mother           
Never Ever Give Up Hope  
Spatulas on Parade         

Thursday, October 18, 2018

Why Every Woman Needs A Signature Perfume

     I've been wearing perfume for as long as I can remember, and I never leave the house without wearing my favorite fragrance.

     Today on the blog, my guest writer is sharing the five reasons why women need their own signature perfume and what it says about their personalities. Please welcome Cynthia Jerry, founder and Chairman of Ocean (Caribbean) Distributors, Inc. and the creator of Tiv perfume, "The Designer Fragrance of the Caribbean," to Meno Mama's site!

Why Every Woman Needs a Signature Perfume

Perfume creates a vision or an illusion that lingers in the room even long after the wearer is gone. They have a powerful impact, not only to our sense of smell, but also to the other senses. A fragrance can trigger emotions and feelings, desire, and be tied to a particular person and specific memories--so, in essence, every time others smell a specific fragrance that you wear, they are reminded of you.

Every woman should have a signature perfume--and here are five reasons why. 

1. Scents can evoke emotions. 

The olfactory bulb, the neural structure of the brain that’s related to the sense of smell, is also known as the emotional brain, as it is responsible for processing feelings and memories. So whenever you smell a scent, it triggers emotional reactions or reminds you of a particular memory.

For example, here at Tiv Perfume, we use essences that evoke elements of the tropical Caribbean in a sophisticated and classic scent. We want our wearers to be reminded of luxury island getaways when they wear the fragrance.

2. Fragrance can reveal your personality.  

Whenever you wear a specific perfume, it reflects an aspect of your personality. This is because any scent of your choice is actually an extension of your personality and emotions. In fact, your perfume makes a more powerful impression on others than anything else you wear on your body.

Recent studies have shown that your favorite scent is indeed closely related to your personality type. For example, if you like citrus scents, you’re the boss. You like everything in order and you’re always ready to conquer the world. Floral scents, on the other hand, exude feminism and romance. Fruity scents are the epitome of fun and festive, while chocolate oriented or rich fragrances exude confidence and sex appeal. So your perfume truly offers a glimpse into who you are. 

3. Wearing the perfect perfume enhances your beauty. 

A recent study has shown that the same woman is considered more physically attractive when wearing a perfume. This means that the perception of beauty is closely related to the emotions aroused by the scent. A nice scent can make your face look younger and enhance your physical appearance. So if you want to attract attention, create desire, or feel more beautiful and confident, just add a spritz of your perfect fragrance. 

4. Your perfume creates lasting impressions and impact on others. 

Every time you wear a perfume and spend time with other people, the memories and emotions related to you becomes associated with the scent you’re wearing. So when you spend romantic moments with your love interest, happy times with your friends, etc, they’ll remember positive emotions from when you were with them whenever they smell that same scent. And they will begin to associate that scent with only you. Memories triggered by a scent are not often detailed, but usually a feeling of fondness, beauty, romance or desire.

5. Wearing a perfume makes you feel good. 

Nothing makes you feel more confident than knowing that you smell good and look beautiful. It can enhance your mood and change your behavior. According to a recent study, 90% of women feel more confident when wearing a perfume compared to when they aren't. Wearing the right perfume can make you instantly feel confident or in a great mood!

Finding and wearing a signature fragrance enhances your beauty and self-confidence, evokes positive emotions and feelings in others, creates lasting impressions and attraction, can change your mood with just a spritz, compliment your personality, and remind you of beautiful memories or places.

And that’s why every woman should look for her perfect signature perfume! 


Cynthia Jerry is the founder and Chairman of Ocean (Caribbean) Distributors, Inc. and the creator of Tiv Perfume, “The Designer Fragrance of the Caribbean.”

Cynthia began her career in the fashion and beauty industry as the Fashion Director for the May Company Department Stores, the Director of Fashion and Beauty Marketing at Essence Magazine, and the Marketing Director at the Estee Lauder Company’s prestigious fragrance division. Upon leaving Estee Lauder, Cynthia launched her own fragrance, Tiv Perfume, a sophisticated and classic perfume formulated in the Caribbean. Tiv made history as an ultra-successful boutique fragrance at the former Hecht’s Department Store in Washington D.C. (now Macy’s) as the first small-business vendor for the $12 billion retailing giant and is now sold online at

Cynthia was honored as the Small Business Advocate of the Year in 2003 by the U.S. Small Business Administration, and has always played a significant role in giving back to the community as the founder of the New Image Foundation Corporation, a not-for-profit corporation in the Virgin Islands on a mission to enable low-income youth and adults to become self-sufficient in life, and raising over $135,000 as the franchise holder for the Miss Virgin Islands Scholarship Organization.

Friday, October 5, 2018

Book Review: The Size Of Everything

     Every now and then, a book comes along that I became so completely engrossed in that I cannot put it down. Such is the case with The Size of Everything, a memoir written by Erin Cole and co-author Jenna McCarthy.

     The book captures the heart-wrenching story of parental neglect of a young girl who is bounced from one unstable home to the next. Despite the abuse suffered at the hands of adults who controlled every aspect of the author's life---down to the way she dressed to the amount of food she was allowed to eat---the memoir is sprinkled with bits of humor to avoid being a dark read.

     What impressed me most about Erin Cole's story was her ability to overcome a cringe-worthy, troubled past. Her story is one of endurance and hope, her resilience an inspiration to anyone who reads this amazing book.    

     Don't just take my word for it; check out some of these reviews:

“A beautifully written story of triumph, 
wit, and sheer determination to survive."
-W. Bruce Cameron, bestselling author

I’ve been raving like a maniac about this book ever since I read it. 
I haven’t seen a memoir this compelling and inspirational since 
The Glass Castle.”
–Carla Levy, books editor at Good Housekeeping Magazine

"Remarkable and inspiring."-Jane Heller, bestselling author
"A searing account of a broken, devastating childhood 
and the triumph that emerged in spite of—and because of—the wreckage. 
What a book!"

-Allison Winn Scotch, bestselling author

     I'm super excited to share an excerpt from The Size of Everything. The opening words roped me in the minute I started reading Erin's story.

                       Prologue: Reach for the Stars

When Mom was drinking, I’d wish with all my might that she would stop. But sometimes when she did, it was even worse.

It was only afternoon but of course she was in bed, the curtains pulled as tight as they would go. Our new house on Ramona wasn’t like the one on Stardust—it didn’t face the sun the same way or the curtains were made of a different fabric or maybe it was bothso making it feel like midnight in there wasn’t an option. The best she could hope to recreate was dusk.

I was playing some quiet eight-year-old game in my room when I heard her talking. She didn’t have a phone in her bedroom, not that she had any friends she might be chatting with anyway, so I went in to see who she was talking to.

The door was cracked. Mom was lying in her bed, on top of the covers. Her eyes were open and she had both arms outstretched toward the ceiling.

“Grab my hand,” she was saying to the air, her tone desperate. “Come on, I have you. Just grab my hand!”

“Mom, who are you talking to?” I asked, trying to make my voice light.

She turned to me sharply. Her eyes were glazed and almost unrecognizable.

“You can’t see him?” she shouted, as if I were blind or crazy or some combination of the

“Who?” I asked. My old friend panic slipped his fingers around my neck and began to
softly squeeze.

“ERIN, HE’S RIGHT THERE! GRAB HIM!” She was frantic; adamant.

“There’s no one there, Mom,” I told her.

“YES, THERE IS,” she insisted. “It’s Kelly, he’s here. He’s really here. Grab his hand,

Erin. Grab him! Get on the bed. Stand up on it and reach. You can get him, honey, I know you can!”

She was gone and I knew it. I didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was so I did what she asked. I climbed onto her bed and I stretched out my arms as far as I could and I tried to grab Kelly.

“Reach straight up. Yes, right there! You’ve got him now, grab him. Come on, Erin, you can do this!”

Over the next few years, my sister and I would be subjected to this torture over and over. Mom would try to quit drinking dozens of times, each attempt marked by periods of intense hallucinations. And every time, we’d stand on her bed and reach and grasp just like she asked us to, but we could never get our dead brother back for her. 

Friday, September 21, 2018

Fly On The Wall In An Achy House

     Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall group blog postings, hosted by Karen of Baking In A Tornado. Today, four bloggers are bravely opening their homes to you so that you can be a "fly on the wall" to see what goes on behind closed doors.

     We're all abuzz over here at the Doyle house prepping for a new baby granddaughter, who is due in a month! Tomorrow we celebrate with a baby shower brunch, and I am beyond excited. I've been to a gazillion showers over the years, but this one will be different for me because it's co-ed! I guess this is what the young moms are doing nowadays. Even the traditional baby shower games have changed ("Bobbing For Bottle Nipples," "Twerking Ping Pong Balls"...say whaaaaa?). I'm giving you fair warning----my next Fly On The Wall post in October will most likely be filled with incriminating photos from this crazy event.

     Most of the conversations that have been going on around my house lately involve my husband's health. He's 62 going on 32, or so he thinks. He has a physically demanding job outdoors, which I'm certain contributes to 99% of his aches and pains, but this hasn't stopped him from slowing down one bit. His nightstand drawer is loaded with a bevy of medication for whatever ails him, and I enjoy nothing more than teasing him about this advanced age when he complains.....

"I'm so tired go being sore when I wake up every morning. Yesterday it was my back. Today it's my hips."
 "Jurassic park called. They're missing one of their dinosaurs."

"I can't sleep right now. Everything aches."
"Is that why you're squinting at me in the dark?"
"No, I'm pretending to be a chipmunk with a bad eye."
"I can't handle your weirdness at 1:00 a.m. Go the f@*k to sleep."
"Be nice or else I'll maul you with my chipmunk paws."

"Are you going to need a taller ladder to reach that shelf?"
"Yeah, I need two more inches."
"That's what she said...."

"I'm playing a video golf game on my iPad and my competitor's name is Fatty Fatkins."
"Then you should probably change your user name to Poopie Poopkins."

"Have you ever noticed that a pug's butt looks like Jesus in a robe with his arms outstretched?"
"And so we shall pray to the almighty pug: Father, Son and the Holy Sphincter."

"My legs are really hurting tonight. I need another blanket."
"You need an amputation."

     I need my husband to stay healthy at least until the new grand baby arrives. After that, I'll be placing a call to Jurassic Park about an idea for a new exhibit......

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? I'm up on Pickle Fork this week with a funny post on surviving a hurricane. You can read it here:

Buzz around, see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:

Baking In A Tornado        
Menopausal Mother           
Never Ever Give Up Hope  
Spatulas on Parade         


Friday, September 7, 2018

The Daily Itinerary Of A Female Cockroach

     If there is one creation on earth that I hate above all else, it is the COCKROACH. We have plenty of them down here in south Florida because these nasty insects love the tropics as much as the tourists do. We call ours "palmetto bugs," and they're the size of chupacabras. Even worse--the females can FLY (the true definition of hell).

     Another disgusting and horrifying thing about cockroaches: they refuse to DIE, no matter how many times they're sprayed with poison or squished with a shoe. I'm convinced they'll survive the apocalypse in a zombie-cockroach kind of way....which means that we're all doomed.

     I've had enough years in Florida to "observe" cockroaches, (what I really mean is that I SCREAM and run in TERROR) and the females are particularly tenacious. They give birth to dozens of babies at once and are quite clever about laying their eggs in hidden places. I'm certain they have a secret agenda, but if I had to think like a female cockroach, I imagine this is what my daily agenda would be:

6:00 a.m.  Kitchen lights on. Hide under toaster and nibble on crumbs.

6:45 a.m. Rummage around silverware drawer for more crumbs. Avoid roach motel.

7:30 a.m. Mix and Mingle Party under shower drain.

8:45 a.m. Invite girlfriends over to raid open bag of Chips Ahoy left in pantry.

9:00 a.m. Come down from sugar high. Check reflection in mirror to make sure chocolate chip cookies did not make butt look bigger.

10:00 a.m. Engage in Yeti tactics with furry, four-legged creature. Wiggle antennas and scurry under door mat before getting caught.

12:00 p.m. Nap time (check out wet laundry pile at bottom of teenage boy's closet).

3:00 p.m. Catch up over coffee grounds in trash bin with girlfriends

5:00 p.m. Dinner: remnants of food left in dog bowl.

7:00 p.m. Hang out incognito with humans watching Orange Is The New Black by blending in with floral drapes.

8:00 p.m. FREAK OUT HUMANS (Bitch, you think that Raid shit is gonna kill me? We've survived trips on Russian spaceships and we'll be here long after your species is extinct).

10:00 p.m. Kitchen lights out. Party time!

10:15 p.m. Kitchen lights on----everyone hide under the dishwasher!

11:00 p.m. Rendezvous with sweetheart behind toilet. Make 100 baby cucarachas. Smoke afterwards.

2:30 a.m. Early morning smorgasbord with friends on kitchen counter: leftover pizza crust, two lettuce leaves (for the dieters) and several tortilla chip crumbs. Lick margarita glasses left in sink.

5:00 a.m. Climb tiles in shower to work off extra tortilla chip calories.

5:30 a.m. Groom wings, get manicure on all six legs, lay egg in Tupperware bin.

5:55 a.m. Plan baby shower.

6:00 a.m. Lights on---a new day! Meet girls for breakfast under the toaster oven. Discuss wing span length of buff cockroach living two drawers down. Fantasize about the day we will INHERIT THE EARTH.

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? It has been a BUSY week for me!! I co-wrote a satirical list post with close friend and fellow humorist Linda Roy, and we were featured on The Weekly Humorist! You can read the post here:  Later this week, I had my first feature post on Little Old Lady Comedy---a fun, new essay on why menopause doesn't suck, which you can read here:


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