Menopausal Mother

Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall group blog postings hosted by Karen of Baking In A Tornado. Today three bloggers are bravely inviting you into their homes to see what goes on behind closed doors. 

That nosy fly has found me reflecting on past holidays quite a bit lately. I love the holidays, but there are always some bittersweet memories attached to the festivities. While I embrace the holiday spirit of decorating, shopping, tree trimming, gift wrapping, Christmas music, and baking, I'm also reminded of the Christmas' from my youth when our family gathered for the big day. Now, several of my family members are gone, and the memories they've left behind are tinged with sadness. 

When the church choir sings the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah, I remember my father standing silently beside the pew in a show of appreciation. 

A fragrant, newly-decorated spruce tree reminds me of my mother carefully hanging her delicate glass ornaments on the rich, green boughs. 

Chocolate buckeye candy makes me think of my sister Cherie and the hours we spent rolling sugared peanut butter balls in the kitchen while Christmas music played in the background. 

Mom's frosted spice cookies were my brother Randy's favorite treat. Every Christmas after dinner, Randy and I snuck into the kitchen to pack a large bag of spice cookies for home before the others discovered what we were doing. 

Although they are gone now, I know my parents, sister and brother would want me to embrace my own family and create new holiday traditions to cherish for years to come. And that's exactly what we have done.

Here are some of my favorite photos with family and friends celebrating the holiday together:

     Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall, hosted by Karen of Baking in A Tornado. Each month, several bloggers share posts on what would be seen if you were a fly on the wall in their homes. In my case, the fly went along on a road trip with me earlier this month.

     I recently returned from an adventure that proved to be one of the most entertaining weeks of my life. I'm not talking about a trip to Disney World or a vacation on a cruise ship. I'm talking about the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop, a special conference held in Dayton, Ohio every two years for aspiring writers. This was my third EBWW conference, and I swear, they just keep getting better every time. The conference offers a multitude of classes on the craft of writing, along with the opportunity to network with other writers, editors and agents. There's also a whole slew of famous keynote speakers to inspire us on our writing journey as well.

     As much as I enjoyed helpful classes on topics such as the secrets to getting published in magazines, memoir boot camp, using humor in the dark places, and busting writer's block, to me, one of the most important aspects of the conference was the camaraderie among my writer friends. We booked hotel rooms side by side, ate all of our meals together and brainstormed ideas for books, blogs, and personal essay writing. These people are my tribe, the people who encourage me to keep going when I feel like quitting. Because of them, I'm back to working on my memoir---something I had put off for awhile during a long bout of writer's block.

     Rather than go into detail about the incredible energy and excitement I felt at the conference, I'd rather express the experience in a collection of photos taken at the event. Enjoy!

   

     I love social media. It keeps me connected to family and friends who live near and far. It's fun catching up with everyone by reading their status updates and checking out their latest Instagram photos. My husband doesn't understand this. He had a Twitter account for all of sixty seconds before deleting it, because he thought reading about what others were eating for lunch or watching on TV was a waste of time. He's probably right about that, but Facebook is the sweet seductress who summons me at all hours of the day and night just to take a "quick peek" at the world I socialize in. Instagram is cool if I want a quick social fix though photo montages that my friends post, or Snapchat, which is FUN----but how many times can you watch someone with a photoshopped deer's nose and ears talking to you in a distorted, high pitched voice?

     As much as I love the diversity of friends that I have on social media, there are still certain types of people on the various platforms I use that annoy the heck out of me. But let's be real----I'm guilty of more than just a few of these stereotypes.......



THE SELFIE QUEENS (And Kings): Usually it's the women I see posting selfies on social media, but there are also quite a few fellows who post photos of their six-pack abs after a grueling workout at the gym. Naturally, these don't bother me so much---I rather admire them. It's kind of like flipping through the annual firefighter's calendar. But the women......geez, enough with the duck face selfies, ladies. Your normal smile is beautiful---you don't need to pucker up your lips in an attempt to like Angelina Joule or Lisa Rinna....or a mallard.

VAGUEBOOKERS: These people on Facebook drive me nuts. Stop posting things like, "Well, I didn't see THAT coming", or, "Wow, I am so over my husband after what he just did."
     Oh please, do tell. We're sitting over here on pins and needles, just watching your train wreck
unfold.

THE FOODIE: You know the type----they make sure their dinner plate presentation is five-star quality before posting a pic of it on Instagram or Facebook **Raises hand** (okay, I AM GUILTY of this one). The same goes for alcoholic beverages. Hey, I'll even add a spear of fresh fruit and a paper umbrella to my drinks just to show off my flair for mixology (and to make you really, really thirsty).

THE TV EPISODE SPOILERS:  I guess these social media peeps are unaware of time zone differences. Wars have been fought and friendships lost over people posting season finale results from The Bachelor, This Is Us, or Game Of Thrones, before the rest of the population has seen the final episode.

THE PHOTO TAGGERS: I cannot stress this enough----DO NOT TAG ME ON SOCIAL MEDIA IN ANY PHOTOS WHERE I LOOK LIKE A TROLL. This crap always happens to me when I'm most vulnerable---like when I'm taking a three-hour power nap on a Sunday afternoon, or when I'm in the woods and have no WiFi access (ok, I'm not in the woods very often, so let's just say it happens when I'm stuck at the hardware store with Hubs and there's no internet connection whatsoever). If you are a decent friend, you will never tag me in a photo where my muffin top is bursting out in all of its glory.....or when I'm having a bad hair day and my tresses look like a used Brillo pad.

DRUNK FACEBOOKERS: Rule No.#1....never, EVER, engage with people late at night on social media when you've had one too many libations. You'll either be ranting about the injustices in the world or writing about how you want to start a GoFundMe page for endangered whales. Drunk Facebookers are also known for sending flirtatious, private messages at 3:00 am in an attempt to amp up a friendship with the object of their desire---married or not. Is this the internet equivalent to pickup lines in a bar?

THE WHINERS: These negative people (also known as "Attention Whores") have nothing better to do with their time than complain about everything and anything. They use social media as their personal diary. They're overworked, underpaid; their kids/spouse/in-laws are all a-holes, and no one appreciates them. They want your sympathy and an abundance of "likes" on their status updates to see who's listening and who actually gives a crap. Even the family dog isn't safe from their out of control ranting.

INSTAGRAM JUNKIES: These photographer-wannabes post pictures of everything from their cat cleaning its hind quarters to glorious sunsets outside their kitchen window (forgetting that everyone also sees the pile of dirty dishes sitting in the sink). I have nothing against a good photo, but for the love of all that is holy, stop posting multiple photos of your kid's DIY dorm room makeover on Instagram, or 15 different shots of the key lime pie you consumed after dinner. This stuff clogs my feed when I'm scrolling through to find what I really want----important stuff, like squirrel GIFs.


THE LOVEBIRDS: Hey, we get that you're in love with your spouse/significant other, but how many times must we be subjected to photos of you and your main squeeze lip-locked in the kitchen, the car, over a plate of steaming oysters at a trendy seafood restaurant, or in a crowded aisle at The Dollar Tree?

SOAPBOX JUNKIES: These people protest just about everything imaginable, from politics, to religious beliefs, to corporate greed, or even the price increase on a stack of pancakes at IHOP. They share their rants on social media in an attempt to sway their friends to their way of thinking, but this often backfires, leaving in its wake a trail of people who have swiftly "unfriended" you. I have to admit though, if you tell me you don't like chocolate chip pancakes, I might have to unfriend you, too.

PROUD PARENTS: I get that you're proud of your little munchkins. I'm proud of my munchkins, too, even though they're all grown up now. Perhaps if the internet had been around when my kids were born, I too, would be sharing a gazillion photos of their first smile, first bath, and the ever popular birthday-cake-smudged-face. Save all these adorable pics for the grandparents. I just want to see photos of your dog.

THE OVERZEALOUS SHARER: You know who these people are. They post stuff like, "If you believe in God, copy and paste this status on your Facebook wall"; "If you're a true friend, share this photo of a rose on Facebook, and then share it with ten more people, including me."
     You want roses? I hear they sell them by the dozen real cheap at Costco.

SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTERS: "Wanna buy my life-changing book? Would you like to attend a party where I'll be doing demonstrations on a miracle face cream that will erase all those stress lines you acquired after having four kids? How about decorative stickers for your nails, or bath bombs that contain faux gems? Better yet, check out my new line of natural jewelry made out of wheat grass and hemp."
     No, people, I do not want to buy anything from you, unless, of course, you're selling adorable pug puppies. However, I DO have this book about someone stealing my spandex that I'm SURE will make you laugh.... **SHAMELESSLY INSERTS AMAZON LINK HERE**

     See? I told you I'm one of the most annoying people on the internet.....


***WANT MORE MENO MAMA? Read my new article featured on Her View From Home: "When The Amber Alert Is For Your Son"

     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 PREPARATION STAGE:

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.

THE EVENT: 

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 AFTERGLOW:

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.

 
   October is a difficult month for me. Even though I love the crisp fall mornings, the abundance of pumpkins, and the fact that my birthday is celebrated on the 15th, it's also a time that I'm reminded of the sister I lost.

     Cherie was the oldest of the four children in our family, and I was the youngest, but the six year gap in our ages never bothered her. My sister carted me around on her hip, let me play with her pet parakeets and snuck food into my room whenever I was banned from the dinner table for talking back to my parents. Those tiny care packages wrapped in paper napkins were offerings of love and sympathy from a sister who knew all too well the wrath of parental punishment.

     So much of my childhood was spent in my sister's room. We shared hours together cutting out patterns for Betsy McCall Paper Dolls, drawing Arabian horses on her giant sketch pad, and singing along to her Herman's Hermits albums. She taught me how to play Crazy Eights and War, and sometimes our marathon card games lasted long past my bedtime. Her room was my sanctuary; a peaceful place that smelled of sandalwood incense, leather, and fresh paint from her art set. Every inch of wall was covered with posters of Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, peace signs and slogans protesting the Vietnam War. At night, she'd turn on a black light that made the patterns on her psychedelic posters come alive in the eerie blue glow from the lamp. We told stories in the dark and dreamed of faraway places where mythical creatures lived. And in that dim blue light, we made promises to be there for one anther no matter what happened in the future.

     Our relationship evolved the way long term friendships do----with immeasurable trust and a strong sense of loyalty toward one another. We fought occasionally as all siblings do, but neither one of us carried a grudge. All it took was a joke or a funny face, and within minutes we'd be laughing over the absurdity of the argument. She understood me better than most, and never judged me for my failings. She always had my back and defended me at every turn. We often joked that we were the black sheep of the family----so different from our siblings and parents, but in truth, it's what bonded us from the beginning.


     Once we grew older, got married and had families, I didn't see Cherie as much. We were both caught up in work and raising our families with little time to visit one another. Her life was not an easy one; she went through two difficult divorces and ended up raising a son mostly by herself. Over the years she developed an eating disorder, along with several other health issues that appeared as a result of her obesity. I knew she was broken, but I didn't know how to fix her. I was battling my own eating disorder demons, and the painful reality of seeing myself in my sister's struggles was more than I could handle. I stood by helplessly as she spiraled downward into a vicious cycle of yo-yo dieting and emotional binge eating. It frustrated and frightened me to the point that I avoided her invitations to get together, especially if the outing involved food.

     Now I'm left with guilt and a deep sense of regret for turning away from the woman who was once my best friend. We knew each other so well, yet I ignored all the warning signs. It was too painful to acknowledge that my sister was slowly killing herself. She was lonely and unhappy, but I pretended not to see it because it was easier to live in denial. I blindly convinced myself that she would realize how much she had to live for, and that she'd seek professional help before spinning completely out of control.

     In 2009, Cherie succumbed to pneumonia during the early hours of Halloween. I hovered over her hospital bed when she was in a coma and prayed that she would open her eyes. Even during her final moments, I refused to believe that she would never wake up. I thought of all the things we needed to do together, and promised her that once she was well enough to leave the hospital, that I would take her up on her invitations to feed the hummingbirds at Butterfly World, sip margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, bake cinnamon rolls together in her kitchen and do "movie nights" once a month to watch all the classics from her extensive video collection.

     Her heart gave out as I stood by her bed, and the shrill buzz from the hospital monitor after she passed away still haunts me to this day. The tears I shed were not from sorrow, but anger. Anger at her for giving up too soon, and anger at myself for not keeping my childhood promise to be there for her whenever she needed me.

     Although it has been seven years, the grief still lingers. Cherie was so many parts of me, and now that she's gone, it feels as if I've undergone a partial amputation of my heart. The wound will heal in time, but the scar it leaves behind will be a reminder of the gentle spirit that once graced my life with a love that only a sister can understand.

This fall as I watch the leaves turn to golden hues and scatter across the sky, I think of Cherie. And I will never, ever stop missing her.