Friday, June 23, 2017

Fly On The Wall In A Text Message

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

     One day last week when it rained like crazy, I texted Hubs to let him know that I decided not to drive to the gym in the storm. I also mentioned that the dogs refused to go out in the rain and that they would most likely poop in the house. Our text convo went something like this:

     Last week while I was cleaning the house, I spotted a huge cockroach near the ceiling. As most of you know, I am deathly afraid of these machinations of the devil. I texted a photo of it and sent it to my daughter, who is also terrified by these horrid bugs. Because I'm a good mom like that. Her response:

     Hubs and I love to drive each other crazy with musical ear worms---the most annoying songs we can think of. The theme song to "Born Free" (yeah, I'm THAT old...I saw the movie in the theatre when it debuted in 1966) popped into my head the other day, and of course, I just HAD to share it with Hubs while he was out running errands (because I'm also a good wife like that):

     And then there was just some stupid stuff being said randomly around the house recently:

"Honey, we're so old, we come from the days when salad spinners were considered high tech."

"Why did the kids drop off their dogs here? We already have three of our own. Now there's five. What are we, the Doggie Depot?"
"My God, my feet hurt from work today. Wish I could just chop 'em off."
"Is that why you ordered that chain saw for Father's Day?"

"I picked up the broccoli spears from the store. They were in the aisle next to Britney....Britney Spears."

"What's this weird soap you bought called, Grandpa's Soap?"
"It's homemade soap with a little bit of Grandpa in it to get you clean every day."
"That's a gross concept. I'm not lathering up with anything that has been made out of human bits. "

"Remember the days when we were romantic and you would point to me and say, 'You, Me, Bed, NOW.'?"
"Yeah, but we're old farts now, so, it's more like, 'You, Me, Bed, Nap'."
"At least you have your priorities straight."

***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? It has been a successful week! First let me give you the latest news: I JUST HAD MY FIRST ARTICLE ACCEPTED FOR FUTURE PUBLICATION ON THE WASHINGTON POST!!!! Stay tuned for details! Today, you can catch my NEW articles on HELLO GIGGLES ("I Didn't Think I wanted Children Until I Met My Husband--And Now I Have Four") and RAVISHLY ("The Trials And Tribulations Of Raising Teens")

Buzz around, see what you think, then click on these links for a peek into some other homes:
Baking In A Tornado                  http://www.BakingInATornado. com
Menopausal Mother           
Searching for Sanity                    http://singlemumplusone.
Spatulas on Parade                       http://spatulasonparade.
A Little Piece of Peace                    http://little-piece-of-
Never Ever Give Up Hope               http://batteredhope.blogspot. com
Bookworm in the Kitchen                http://www.  

Friday, June 16, 2017

The Three Stages Of A High School Reunion.

     It starts the moment you receive an email that your classmates are organizing another high school reunion. Your knee-jerk response is complete and utter denial: THERE'S NO WAY TEN YEARS HAVE ALREADY PASSED SINCE THE LAST REUNION. Once this little fact registers in your brain, panic sets in....and all hell breaks loose as you prepare to spend a weekend with people you probably haven't seen since Boyz II Men were on their first tour and everyone was wearing Hammertime pants.

     There are three stages to every high school reunion that follow the initial days of denial: The Preparation, The Event, and The Party Afterglow (Alas, for some, this is also known as the "Relief Stage"....because it's finally over and they can go back to wearing their comfy stretch pants and arch support sandals).


The first thing you do is check out the photos from the LAST reunion to see how much you've changed. This is followed by a close inspection of your reflection in the mirror. HOLY CRAP, WHEN DID I PUT ON ALL OF THIS WEIGHT?? This is when the real panic sets in. You dust off that gym membership and survive on rabbit food for weeks in an earnest attempt to drop two clothes sizes before the big day. When that doesn't work, you buy something in black that will at least make you LOOK ten pounds lighter (or prove that you're in mourning from the loss of your youthful appearance). And then you cry in the parking lot at Dunkin' Donuts while you scarf down two French Crullers and a Boston Kreme donut.

It's not just the weight gain that bothers you. It's the elephant skin around your eyes, the thinning grey hair at your temples, and those pesky age spots along your droopy jawline that disturb you the most. Like a soldier preparing for battle, you line up your defenses. Hair appointment, check. Facial, mani and pedi, check. Teeth whitening, eyebrow shaping, nose hair plucking, leg waxing....check, check, and double check. You've spent a small fortune on all of these things, but desperation kicks in when you notice your pasty white thighs, and you have no problem shelling out an additional $75 for a tanning booth to give your skin that natural, sun-kissed glow.....which will have faded by the time you pay your final bar tab at the reunion.


You wake up the day of the event as jittery as a prepubescent teen embarking on her first date....or a sacrificial virgin preparing to be thrown into a live volcano. The reunion could go either way.

To calm your nerves, you soak in a warm tub and wonder if it's too early to have a cocktail. As the hour of departure draws near, you decide to be bold and wear the pink tunic instead of the black dress.

Once you arrive, you make a beeline to the bar to bolster your courage and suddenly catch a glimpse of yourself in the foyer mirror. It's at that moment you realize that wearing the tunic was a mistake. You look like a lumpy potato wrapped in pink Saran, ready for the microwave. Better make that martini a double.

Three cocktails later, you're on the dance floor with your friends, busting a move from the 1980's and praying that both your knee caps and the Spandex that fits you like a sausage casing will hold up under the strain.

People are hugging and reminiscing about prom and homecoming and bonfires, all of which you were never a part of since you were incredibly awkward in high school. But none of this matters, because the martinis have sufficiently numbed you to the point that you've forgotten that you look like a potato. No one else notices either----they're too busy having fun with you, chowing down on a platter of elf-size quiches and photobombing your selfies.

Even though you were never accepted as a "cool kid" in high school, by the end of the evening you've become one, because at this stage in life, you're all members of the popular clique known as the "Old Farts Club."


The morning after the reunion, you bask in the afterglow of renewed friendships and chuckle over the barrage of tagged photos on social media as you contemplate the best way to cure your martini hangover. You're also incredibly grateful that many of the photos have been doctored to make you look ten years younger.

Once the aspirin kicks in, you realize what a damn good time you had and how proud you are to be part of such an inspiring group of classmates. They've reminded you that even though you've aged on the outside, you're still just as fun and youthful on the inside. And for this, you love them. You've gained a new tribe of friends and you can't wait to see them again at the next reunion in ten years.  Even if you still look like a potato.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

College Grad Moving Back Home? 5 Tips To Make It Work

Friday, June 2, 2017

Did You Steal My Spandex....Again?

     Do you need a little humor to boost your mood after watching all the junk on the news lately? Are you looking for a fun, poolside read? I have the perfect solution to kickstart your summer with some much needed laughter. For a limited time, you can STEAL MY SPANDEX at the low price of just .99 cents for the ebook version, which is available on Amazon and on Barnes & Noble.

     Just so you know that you're spending that .99 cent wisely (instead of hitting up the Dollar Store for a seashell soap dish), I'm sharing one of my favorite chapters from the book as a sneak preview to help convince you that your money will be well spent on a few hours of humor:

                         SLEEPUS INTERRUPTUS

I love my quiet weekends. They give me license to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—napping. When the lunch dishes are cleared and my schedule is free, I retire to my private little paradise under a stack of blankets and pillows. Once I close my bedroom door, the family KNOWS not to disturb me. They understand all too well that if my beauty rest is interrupted, they'll be dealing with a haggard ogre, and the consequences for waking me will be swift and painful.
Most weekends I can steal a little shut-eye by midafternoon. I'm a firm believer in a three-hour siesta. But lately, uncontrollable outside forces have been messing with the sweet slumber I so desperately crave. No, I’m not referring to young children screeching or running through the house. What I’m referring to are things like the obnoxious neighborhood ice cream truck that takes sadistic pleasure in blaring “Pop Goes the Weasel” from massive speakers as it drives repeatedly past my home. The driver’s timing is always precise—just as I am in the throes of a deliciously sexy dream, about to lock lips with George Clooney: POP GOES THE WEASEL!
At times like this, I grit my teeth against the sudden urge for an orange Creamsicle, burrow deeper under the covers, and wait for the offending truck to pass. Just when I start to slip back into the land of Nod, the doorbell rings and the dogs go insane. Over their incessant barking, a salesman tries to convince me that I need to switch cable companies and add an additional 500 channels to the existing 700 I already have. Hey, I never get the chance to sleep, so why not have even more opportunities to live vicariously through the people testing out Tempur-Pedic mattresses on late-night infomercials? 
The salesman leaves, and I finally get the chance to drift back into the slumber I have been looking forward to all week. I never know how much time passes—it could be two hours or two minutes—but inevitably, the next-door neighbor who won last year's Curb Appeal Award will decide to do a little creative landscaping. As he trims the base of his perfectly squared hedge with a weed-whacker, small stones ricochet loudly off my bedroom window. It sounds like a woodpecker on steroids. I'd rather sleep in a room filled with chocolate-wasted toddlers than listen to the torturous cacophony of flying debris from my neighbor's new lawn toy.
I decide to give napping one more shot when suddenly I find myself baking in a four hundred and seventy-five degree oven. Who invited the freaking sun into my bedroom? Within seconds, I'm bathed in a puddle of sweat and riding out the aftershocks of a merciless hot flash.
Giving up on the fantasy of a three-hour nap, I stagger into the kitchen for a jolt of caffeine to push me through the rest of the day. Peering around the corner, I see my husband sleeping peacefully on the couch, his lips puffing out with each whistling exhale. I hear the TV in the background—a testosterone-infused program on cage fighting—and marvel at his ability to sleep through doorbells, barking dogs, and men locked in combat. Actually, I'm a wee bit jealous. Okay, a LOT jealous. 
Deciding that it really wouldn't be fair for my well-rested husband to be stuck with a wife who resembles a troll, I wake him from sleep. He opens one eye, peers up at me, and smiles. I hand him a cup of coffee and flop down beside him on the couch. He channel surfs like a kid with severe ADD before settling on the Discovery Channel. Grinning, he wraps his arms around me, and I snuggle against his warmth. Within minutes, I drift into blessed slumber.
I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than nodding off during a television documentary about the sleeping habits of wombats, while curled in the arms of the man I love.

Don't you feel better now after laughing? I thought so. What are you waiting for? Buy the book while it's still on sale. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT! **Sale ends June 8, 2017**



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