Menopausal Mother

     I'm not very handy around the house when it comes to repairs. In fact, I pretty much suck at it. For that reason, I keep my electrician, plumber, and a/c guy's cell phone number nearby at all times. Anyone who can repair a leaky faucet, broken smoke alarm or dying air conditioner has my utmost respect. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that fellow humor writer Gina Valley has some serious plumbing skills. Today she's sharing a funny story about repairing her kitchen sink....and the startling revelation that she is no longer cool. Please welcome this funny, talented lady to Meno Mama's site today with lots of comment love!

                                     I LOST MY COOL!

I’m not cool.

• He doesn't have a problem with hitting the drugstore in his pajamas at 2:00a.m. for a tube of Monostat and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. He'll grab a six pack of beer while he's there and tell the checkout lady that he's hosting a helluva party.
  
  
• He sacrifices watching the big game on TV to attend the neighbor's bris. For their dog.
  
  
• He loves his in-laws despite their quirky habits of being cat whisperers and food addicts.
  
  
• When our children were young and we couldn't afford entertainment for their birthday parties, he would don various costumes and morph into “Sven The Happy Swede” or “Daffy The Dysfunctional Clown.”
  
  
• He'll eat my Velveeta surprise casserole without complaint even though it tastes like wallpaper paste and looks like a science experiment gone wrong.
  
  
• Whenever we share a double decker fudge sundae, he sacrifices a few calories by saving the last bite for me.
  
  
• He has plunged our temperamental, overflowing toilet more times than I can count and chased the kids through the house with the dirty, dripping plunger.
  
  
• He doesn't mind being called on in the middle of the night to rescue his teenage daughter when the police detain her for sitting in her friend's car in a baby booster seat without a seatbelt. Yes, she really pulled this stunt.
• He's patient with me when he's feeling amorous and I'm hotflashing like a mofo. Sex is not an option when my lady parts feel like an Easy Bake Oven.
  
  
• He's always ready to protect me from a cockroach invasion. His holster is loaded at all times with a can of Raid on one side and a shoe on the other.

     This week I'm celebrating my three year blogiversary! There have been so many magical moments since I first started Menopausal Mother on August 27, 2011. Most of the exciting changes have occurred in the past year, and I owe the success of the blog to you, dear readers.

     When I started blogging, I was lucky to receive 25 page views per week. Now I'm averaging 9000-10,000 per week, thanks to you! I've seen my fan base grow through various social media outlets and site subscriptions, and I absolutely LOVE interacting with you on these pages.

     2014 has been an AMAZING year. I set certain goals for the blog that I wanted to accomplish within 12 months. I'm astounded that in the first half of the year, I was able to check off every item on my bucket list.  Again, this NEVER would have happened without your love and support. You have proven to me that dreams really DO come true if we are patient and willing to work hard for what we desire.

     Every time I've been interviewed about Menopausal Mother, the same question pops up: "What inspired you to become a writer?" I can answer this several ways---- the artistic gene runs in my family…..but my hubs will tell you that it comes from my gift of gab. Yes, I'm a chatter box. The truth is, I've wanted to be a writer since I read Island Of The Blue Dolphins in the sixth grade.  From that moment on, I kept journals, worked on school literary magazines and eventually graduated from college with a degree in Creative Writing.

     Unable to find a job in my field of interest, I ended up working as a dental assistant by day and writing fiction at night. Within a year, I met my husband, bought a home and in the blink of an eye, had four children.

     I wrote when I could, filling notebooks with plot outlines, dialogue and character sketches drawn from an overzealous imagination. But over time, the notebooks ended up orphaned and unfinished under my bed, home to breeding dust bunnies and wayward socks.

     My identity as a writer became blurred by the daily demands of raising four, rambunctious children and running a chaotic household. I learned to prioritize the needs of my family, and in the process, lost my ambitions of becoming a writer.

     Twenty years passed before I penned anything other than a grocery list.

     After my father was diagnosed with leukemia, I was motivated to write a humorous story about my family life. I wanted to bring a bit of laughter into my father's world of radiation and chemotherapy. He smiled after reading the first story, and told me that I'd finally found my niche. I made a promise to him that day that I would do whatever it took to ignite my writing career.

     A year later, my father passed away. I pulled out the dusty notebooks and woke my dormant muse.

     I've been hooked on writing ever since.

     The blog has led to numerous online publications, collaborative anthologies, awards and a healthy fan base. This fall,  the promise I made to my father will come to fruition with the publication of my humorous book, "Who Stole My Spandex?"

     Writing has transformed my life in ways I never imagined. Having a creative outlet has eased the depression issues I've struggled with for years and is far cheaper than any therapist. Writing has also been a means to capture in words my family history and the memories that I hold dear.

     It took me many years to pursue my passion and find success, but it was well worth the wait.

     I am a mother. A wife. And now, a writer.










Want more Meno Mama? This week you can find me over at The Huffington Post. Read it here:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcia-kester-doyle-/the-seven-deadly-sins-of-menopause_b_5714295.html

 
    The soft padded chair envelopes me in memories of my father, the leather worn where his arms once rested. I run my fingers over the smooth patches to get a sense of him, breath deep the scent of leather and success. From this chair he managed a real estate and banking business, arranged our summer vacations to the Southwest and designed his dream home in Montana.

     My father's legacy is now tucked away in the cardboard boxes that surround me, his voice a distant echo against these bare walls.

      Packing up his office, I come across a grainy, black and white photo that sparks memories of a father who carried me on his shoulders in the pool, made me laugh with his Cookie Monster imitations and when I was older, shared his quiet wisdom with me on a porch in Whitehall, Montana.

     The world will remember him as a successful entrepreneur who was larger than life; an intense man of intellect, integrity and power with a lifelong pursuit of excellence. To me, he was just Dad----the man who was my shelter in a world of uncertainties. No matter my age, I was still his little girl.

     At times he was imposing and strict, reprimanding me when I tested the limits of his patience. Like any teen, I resented his advice until I had children of my own and understood that the boundaries he set were rooted in love.

     There was also a softer side to my father that few people knew. He could be moved to tears when listening to a Wagner opera or the complexities of a Mahler symphony. His eyes misted over whenever he expressed his love and gratitude for my mother. And he hugged us tightly, as if he never meant to let go. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his arms around my shoulders and the soft fabric of his shirt against my cheek.

     When my father was first diagnosed with blood cancer, there was no doubt in my mind that this powerful man would beat the disease. We'd spent an entire summer together tracing his ancestral roots and discovered that longevity was in his family genes.

     He fought the good fight with chemotherapy but the insidious cancer robbed him of all the simple joys in life. The gourmet food and wine he once loved tasted like cardboard as he battled daily against nausea and fatigue. It was difficult watching a man who was once active in sports and a strong force in the boardroom become fragile and confused. I couldn't accept defeat, even as the soft angles of his face were sharpened by rapid weight loss from the disease.                                                                                                

     I realized cancer was winning the day I embraced him and felt the knotted rope of his spine against my fingertips. He no longer had the strength to hug me back.

     My father spent his last days in Hospice with his family surrounding him. I remember how his eyes lit up when we walked into the room and his feeble attempt to squeeze my hand when I sat beside him on the bed. Choking back tears, I spoon fed him his dinner and reminisced about happier times. Looking back, I should have played Wagner or Mahler to soothe him, but I like to think the music was still there, playing in his dreams and lulling him to sleep.

     We lost him two weeks before Father's Day. And just as I did when I was a child, I pressed my face against his chest and heard the last beat of his heart.

     My father has always been my idol and the inspiration that drives me to succeed. He saw the potential in the humorous stories I wrote and encouraged me to become the writer I am today. He believed in me when I was unable to believe in myself, pushing me to heights unimaginable.

     I miss his humor and the deep chuckle that resonated in his voice when he regaled us with tales from his youth. I miss our road trips, family holidays and the laughter we shared over a good bottle of wine. But most of all, I miss his strong embrace.

     I feel him now in the threads of Mahler's music and the stories I write from the comfort of his brown leather chair. When I look to the west, I see his smile beyond the darkness, a shooting star that leaves a bright tail across the summer night.



****Want more Meno Mama? You can find me this week on Midlife Boulevard talking about how menopause drives me crazy! http://midlifeboulevard.com/menopause-make-crazy
I'm also featured this week on What The Flicka, talking about bad Father's Day gifts: http://whattheflicka.com/10-things-get-fathers-day