Menopausal Mother

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know how much I like to highlight the absent-minded situations that my husband gets into. His intentions are good, but somehow his plans always go awry. Case in point: One afternoon when we were hosting a backyard barbecue, my husband offered to do all the cooking. He'd forgotten to replace the old gas line to the grill, and was happily flipping burgers when he noticed a small spark by the gas tank. Grease from the meat was splattering everywhere and hitting the leaks in the gas line.

We narrowly missed a gas explosion that day when the grill burst into flames. The black plumes of smoke sent the partygoers scrambling out into the street. Fortunately, most of our friends discovered a sudden fondness for Cajun-style burgers.

Another example of good intentions gone wrong occurred years ago when a hurricane approached our coastline. My husband thought it would be "fun" to pack our family of six into the minivan for a quick trip to the nearby beach to watch the storm whipping up the waves. Little did he know that the hurricane was a fast moving storm, and that it was closer to our area than he suspected. When the wind began rocking the sides of the van, he broke the land speed record to get us home before the hurricane hit.

Rather than leave the minivan in the driveway, my husband decided to park it on the side of the house for better protection from the oncoming storm. It was a new vehicle, and he was determined to keep it from being crushed by a fallen tree. In his rush to maneuver the car to safety, he put it in reverse and backed into the tight space of our side yard. His foot slipped  off the brake onto the accelerator and the van lunged backwards, slamming into a tree. The glass in the rear window shattered into a million shards just as the rain started lashing the streets. The kids had a hard time containing their giggles while they watched their wind-blown father struggle with a roll of duct tape and a plastic tarp in the middle of a hurricane.

My husband easily falls into these situations because he is a kind man who is always happy to help others. He'll carry heavy bags out to the car for elderly shoppers at the grocery store, assist a stranger changing a tire on a busy highway, or rescue a stranded friend in the middle of the night.  But sometimes these little acts of kindness backfire.

One morning he was in a crowded elevator on his way up to a job interview when the woman next to him spilled a stack of business cards onto the floor. Being the chivalrous man that he is, he bent down to retrieve the cards for her when he heard something rip. Everyone in the elevator stood silent, and at that moment, my husband realized his brand new slacks had split wide open from stem to stern.

Needless to say, he spent the entire interview with his backside to the wall.

It was the most recent incident, however, that will go down in history as the EPIC PHONE FAIL.

Last week when my "Spandex" book was published, my excited husband sent out a large group text on his cell phone to share the good news with everyone on his contact list. A few days later, one of his buddies responded to the text and asked what he could do to help out. My husband JOKINGLY texted back, "Buy the book, F@#*ER!"

After he hit "send" on his cell, it dawned on him that he'd accidentally sent the message to EVERYONE on his contact list. This included not just our close friends, but the plumber, the minister, our vet, the jeweler, the dentist, all of our doctors, the electrician, the A/C guy, our contractor, my mother, the friggin' MAYOR, our hairdresser, and all of our neighbors. It even went to the physician who performed our colonoscopies.

Now I'm worried that the next time I'm due for a colonoscopy, the doctor might "conveniently" forget to give me anesthesia.

I think it's time for my husband to go back to using a rotary phone.





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     If I don't clean out my SPAM folder regularly, it builds up like a mountain of junk mail. This triggers my OCD tendencies, forcing me to delete every item on the page until it's clutter free.

     Occasionally, a valid email accidentally ends up in the junk pile, which requires a slow scroll through each message to make sure I'm not erasing anything important.

    My life would be pretty exciting if the special deals offered to me via SPAM were real. I'd have unlimited spending on a platinum card, life insurance for just a penny a day, an awesome credit score, the winning sweepstakes ticket and a reverse mortgage on my house. I'd also have a marriage proposal from a Russian bride named Svetlana, miracle pills for bigger breasts, access to a married dating service and a cure for erectile dysfunction.

     Lately, I've been noticing a disturbing trend in my junk emails. Whoever (or whatever) is sending me these daily notifications assumes that I need breakthrough diabetes medication, free Ray-Ban sunglasses, fungus removal and dates with all of the "HOT BRAZILIAN  MEN" trolling my online profile for a perfect match.

     Another thing I don't understand is why I'm receiving a multitude of penis enhancement ads. These messages include clever slogans such as, "Size Matters" and, "When Small Is A Dirty Word." The free pill samples promise to help "Get bigger, last longer, stay harder." Who wants genitalia the size of an elephant's? Anyone with an erection lasting longer than eight hours should be considered a human tripod.

     I'm also getting plenty of offers for toenail fungus removal. The last time I checked, no one in my family was growing a mushroom factory under their toenails. There's no fungus among us.

     Since I have a bladder the size of a kidney bean, it's no surprise that I receive emails from concerned medical professionals who want to send me a free, Do-It-Yourself catheter kit. Of course, their gift comes with a warning: "Please read directions carefully---do NOT insert catheter in the wrong area." Thankfully, they're offering me the self-lubricated brand, otherwise it would feel like sandpaper in my nether regions.

     According to my SPAM mail, I've also been invited to unlock Adriana's "naughty picture album." What the message doesn't reveal is that Adriana is ninety-four-year-old great grandma performing her pole dancing act on the geriatric ward.

   
     It's a good thing I check my notifications daily, otherwise I would have missed the news that I won a $5000 trip to Maui. The downside is that I didn't claim my prize within 24 hours, so I'm stuck with a three-day trip to Luckenback, Texas, via Greyhound Bus and a check for $12.50.

     Another interesting fact I learned from my SPAM page is that people are doing background checks on me through the criminal records archives. First of all, I don't have a criminal record. But if I did, the only thing I'd get busted for is stealing extra ketchup from the hot dog stand or nabbing several packets of sweetener off a table at The Olive Garden.  I wonder how much jail time I'd serve for that chicken drumstick I smuggled out for my dog from the all-you-can-eat buffet?

     If I ever need a new car, I know where to find one. I'm inundated with ads for affordable sports cars. They may look like Corvettes on the outside, but I'm betting these vehicles are missing their floorboards. How else could they be so cheap? I'd have to use my Fred Flintstone feet and run like a hamster on a wheel to get the car going. At least my family wouldn't have to worry about me drag racing down I-95.

     There's also some great weight loss deals advertised in my junk emails. For a low price, I can receive the secret Paleo diet that all the celebrities use. What? Eat steak every day and lose weight? Count me in!

     If the Paleo diet doesn't work, there's always the special fat buster offers that clog my inbox. Fat busters work like Ghost Busters---they zap unwanted cells until they shrink and disappear. "Who you gonna call? FAT BUSTERS!"

     My all-time favorite SPAM notifications are the ones that ask me if I'm interested in meeting "SINGLE SENIORS 50+ NEAR YOU."

     Please define "50 Plus." What if my blind date shows up with a walker and a urostomy bag? Will our date include a ride on the senior citizen's bus to the Early Bird Special at Denny's? Will I be required to wear compression socks and orthotic sandals? I might be more enticed by the ad if it included the slogan, "Where Seniors Meet to Nip Whiskey and Play Bocce Ball."

     And now if you'll please excuse me, I need to order my miracle breast enhancement pills, grab my free Ray-Bans and set a wedding date with Svetlana.



***Want more Meno Mama? This week I was featured on Better After 50 discussing my battle with body dysmorphic disorder and my eating disorder. You can read it here: http://betterafter50.com/2014/09/coming-to-terms-with-my-life-long-weight-problem/