Menopausal Mother

     For many of us, this is the busiest time of year. It's also the most stressful. Trying to juggle the everyday demands of work, children, household chores and errand running coupled with extra holiday obligations is enough to make our heads spin (or earn our very own parking spot at the Liquor Mart).  It's nearly impossible to fit in time for decorating the house, shopping for gifts and baking special treats for family and friends.

     Meno Mama is spending the holiday with her crazy family at the nuthouse, so in the meantime I wanted to leave you with a funny guest post I wrote a few months ago for my gal pal Stephanie over at http://whencrazymeetsexhaustion.com. This is a memory from a long time ago…one I'm not too proud of but fortunately am able to laugh at myself for doing the things that I did back then. What can I say? I was young and stupid at the time……



We planned it for months. It was to be the birthday party to end all parties. I bought a beautiful, white silk pantsuit with lace and hand sewn seed pearls on the front for the momentous occasion. The bar, disc jockey and baby sitter had all been reserved, along with a food and decorating committee. On THE BIG DAY, my brother surprised me with a bottle of Dom Perignon ( nectar of the gods) and my husband had a brand, spanking new minivan delivered to our home. It was the perfect day….and I don’t do well with perfection. Because somehow I find a way to screw it up. Two hours before the party started, The Hubs was in the driveway signing the papers with the car salesman. The cold bottle of Dom was calling my name from the refrigerator. I drank the first glass while I finished putting on my makeup. I drank the second (and third) while I was curling my hair. By the time I was pouring my fourth, The Hubs finished the deal and handed me the keys to my new birthday present. I didn’t eat before the party because I’d been dieting so that I wouldn’t look like the Michelin Man in my white pantsuit. I think you know where I’m going with this: champagne + empty stomach = TROUBLE. By the time we arrived at the club, my nerves kicked in at the prospect of hosting a party for 50 people. I quickly marched up to the bar to place my order. My brain started screaming, “NOOO!” the minute my mouth shouted ,”Sex On The Beach!” I NEVER drank that cocktail combination! Someone slipped the bartender a few extra bills to make the drink stronger for the birthday girl. Yeah, like I needed that. I pinched my nose and chugged the drink to calm my nervous excitement. Oh vodka, you fickle bitch, convincing women they can move like a pole dancer on the floor to any pulsating beat from a DJ’s sound system. The siren song of alcohol warped my perception, leading me to believe I was as sexy as Cat Woman in a snug, white pantsuit. I sidled up to every male in the room (including the janitor and a skitterish waiter) like a wolf in heat. The Hubs was busy playing host and didn’t seem to mind that his wife was quickly turning into a party train wreck. That evening, 20 years ago, is still a blur to me. I remember stumbling through some horrid line dances and stepping on many toes. I never got to blow out the candles or taste the birthday cake because I was too busy ralphing up Sex On The Beach in the toilet. My beautiful, white pantsuit turned into a Jackson Pollock painting with red cranberry juice splatters all over the fabric. I DO remember my sister and my best friend holding my hair out of my face so that I wouldn’t wake the next morning with puke-encrusted strands. It took several men to carry me down a flight of stairs to the minivan and believe me, this scene was nothing like Madonna’s “Material Girl” music video where all the male dancers are carrying the sexy, writhing singer down the stairs. Oh, I was writhing all right; writhing in agony because my stomach had not finished giving up the ghost. I learned the next day that everyone happily carried on without me and (thankfully) no lap dances were performed. After I woke from my alcohol induced coma with a headache reminiscent of electro shock therapy, I crawled to the phone to start my long list of apologies to the guests. Moral of the story: tequila might make a woman’s clothes fall off, but Dom makes me dumb and vodka makes me vampy. Next time I’ll wear camo to the party to hide my upchuck imperfections.


***Please check out my pugalicious Christmas card to all of my dear readers today over at In The Powder Room! http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/home-time/2013-12-doyle-nut-house.html

     Christmas 2001 will forever be known as The Day Of The Neighborhood Flu Epidemic. There is nothing worse than spending a major holiday like Christmas with your head in the toilet when you should be taking advantage of the biggest, guilt-free binge fest day of the year. There is no cheerful clinking of champagne glasses or popping sugar cookies in your mouth faster than an aardvark sucking up ants. There is only LONELY time in the bathroom to contemplate the identity of the fiesta-colored items that erupt from your stomach into the toilet bowl. Nor is it fun to be a party of one when you've been quarantined from family and friends like the town pariah. Swapping gifts on Christmas is fine. Germs, not so much. But the flu bug doesn't have discerning tastes and will happily descend upon whatever poor, unsuspecting host it can find.
     In 2001, we attended the annual neighborhood holiday party, which is traditionally held a few days before Christmas. As was custom, the entire block gathered for the festive event at a neighbor's home to chat with old friends and strain the waistband of our pants with an array of holiday foods. Little did we know that our stomachs and intestines were preparing to take us for a ride on the toilet train to hell.

     There was a child at the party who was recovering from a recent bout of the flu, but none of us gave it a second thought as we chatted over rum balls and queso dip.
     The party was a success and we left that night with full bellies and happy hearts.  We had no clue that an invisible, uninvited guest had followed the majority of us home.
     By Christmas Eve, the entire block was infected by the nefarious flu bug that took us down one by one like dominoes. The bubonic plague was alive and well in our neighborhood. The "Welcome To Our Home" plaque outside our front door should have been changed to: "Welcome To The Vomitorium." While others were listening to "O Holy Night" and sipping apple cider, my oldest son and I were singing "O Wretched Night", curled in the fetal position with a vomit bowl between us.  It didn't matter that the stockings were not hung by the chimney with care, because old St. Nicolas was not going to be coming there.  The ONLY thing that mattered to me was the sprinting distance between my mattress and the bathroom door. The problem was that I couldn't decide which end should hit the toilet first----my mouth or my backside. I ended up sitting on the throne with the vomit bowl in my lap and called it a BOGO---buy one get one free.
     That night we missed the candle light Christmas Eve services at church, along with the big solo my son was to perform with the choir. He was too busy making a casserole in the toilet bowl to be bothered with hitting a few high notes. The Hubs was forced to pull double duty with babysitting, gift wrapping and stocking stuffing, not to mention all those pesky, "Assembly Required" packages stored in the garage.

     Christmas morning I was greeted by the cheery sounds of retching and moaning behind the bathroom door. The Hubs was down for the count, along with two more of our children. I knew it was a bad start to the day when no one raced into the living room to see what surprises Santa had left under the tree. The only surprise I wanted from Mr. Claus was a second toilet, along with a gallon of Pepto-Bismol and Kaopectate.
   
 Once we reached four hours of vomit-free bliss, we felt well enough to attend the big family dinner at my folk's home. Selfish perhaps, but we were stir crazy from staring into the well of a toilet bowl for twenty-four hours and needed to get out of the house. We took into consideration that our motley crew looked like Typhoid Mary survivors, but we did our best to control the contagious bug by refraining from bodily contact.  At least the surgical masks and gloves we donned made for some interesting Christmas family photos.
     As we drove home that night and congratulated ourselves for surviving the holiday with our intestines intact, we heard the sound no parent ever wants to hear while they're behind the wheel of a car.
     "Mommy....Daddy....I think I'm going to be sick...."
     If we pretended not to hear our youngest daughter in the backseat, we were certain the specter of illness would surely disappear.
     Apparently Santa had other plans for us.
     Is it any wonder why the following year there was a new porcelain throne under the Christmas tree with my name on it?