Menopausal Mother

     "On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me..."
    
     One portable purse-size fan

     Two deep tissue massage sessions (preferably with Johnny Depp or George Clooney)

     Three vodka martinis (can I invite Depp and Clooney?)

     Four pairs of elastic waist band pants (for all the bloating after the martinis)

     Five jars of age spot cream (never should have spent my college years swilling cheap beer and sunbathing on the beach!)

     Six diet pills (how else am I going to get rid of the 5 pounds of holiday weight gain? I'm still carrying around the "freshman 15" and I graduated 30 years ago!)

     Seven bottles of champagne (all holiday weight gain can be traced back to this)

     Eight female Viagra pills (not necessary if Depp or Clooney was involved)

     Nine energy drinks (so I can do more stupid stuff at a faster pace)


     Ten antidepressant pills (again, not necessary if Depp or Clooney are involved)

     Eleven ice packs (to line the bed at night so I don't wake up in multiple hot flashes)

     Twelve bars of chocolate (it had better be Godiva!)

     On the thirteenth day of Christmas...yeah, I need another day because you forgot to send Guy Fieri my way. Who else am I going to share my Godivas with???

     "It's the most wonderful time of the year!"  Yeah, maybe if I kidnapped the Keebler Elves to do all my shopping, wrapping, baking, decorating and then had them give me a foot massage along with a box of those fudgy cookies they're notorious for.
     For us, the "season" officially starts after the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers are finished, including all that gelled cranberry stuff that ends up in the dog's bowl or someone's unlucky lunch box. It's at this point that my husband has the urge to gas up the mommy mobile and head for the Ozarks to hibernate for a month, just to avoid putting up the Christmas lights.
     Twenty-three rubber storage bins loaded with what my husband fondly refers to as "Christmas crap" are nestled under the rafters in our attic.  Baby Jesus is still sleeping up there, alongside Frosty The Snowman, Santa and a wire reindeer with a bum leg.  Something got into the attic last year and ate the Three Wise Men, but the way my husband sees it, that's one less box of crap to haul down from the attic.  I don't know why he complains so much---all he has to do is decorate our lawn with thousands of LED lights so that it's bright enough to be seen by NASA from the sky.  I'm the one who is always stuck doing the indoor decorations, which includes a motion-activated Santa and a drunk-looking reindeer that shakes his hips and sings,"Shake Your Booty!"  Then there's all the twinkling Christmas characters I bought several years ago during my fiber optics craze.  I also have to assemble an entire village with little lighted houses, shops and Christmas carolers.
     Once the tree is up and the house is decorated inside and out, the extensive shopping list is next to be tackled.  This is my LEAST favorite part of Christmas.  I'd prefer to recline on the couch with a glass of spiked egg nog rather than wait in the long lines at department stores at 3:00 a.m. when all the zombies from The Walking Dead come out to feast.  Maybe if the store managers offered people little cups of spiked egg nog while they waited in line, no one would ever complain again.
     Next comes the party circuit that lasts several weekends in December.  I always start off the holiday festivities in something sexy and black with strappy little heels.  By the end of the month, I'm popping fiber pills by the dozens to counteract the alcohol and high calorie appetizers I've been grazing on at all the parties and swapping heels for bathroom slippers because my toes are permanently damaged from being jammed into stilettos every weekend.
     As the 25th of December draws near, I'm forced to max out my credit card on Scotch tape, bows and wrapping paper.  By Christmas eve I've gone into my frenzied, gift wrapping mode without the aid of the Keebler Elves.
     When Christmas day finally arrives, I'm always dismayed by the amount of pine needles that have already fallen off my tree.  I can never vacuum fast enough to catch them all because they multiply overnight like rabbits.  I'll even find a stray pine needle or two while I'm decorating the house for our Fourth Of July celebration.
     After living on a diet of rum cakes and gingerbread men, I'm ready to start my New Year's resolution to lose weight.  This usually lasts two to three days, then it's back to my old menopausal ways of being cranky, hungry, hot flashy, tired and impatient.
     Why oh why can't they sell spiked egg nog all year 'round?!?

       The other day while I was driving, my purse fell off the passenger seat when I hit the brakes and  landed upside-down on the floor.  No time to tidy it up at a red light, I blindly stuffed everything back inside it, appalled when my fingers brushed against something sticky.  I haven't bothered to organize it in a while, and frankly, I'm a little frightened about what I might find inside.  Yes, I am one of those women who drags the same old bag around year after year until the seams split or an uncapped pen leaks into the fabric.  I'm the odd one at the party with a white tote bag draped over my shoulder in the middle of December.  You might as well tape a sign on my back that reads, "BAD WITH PURSES!"
     I hate buying new purses, and have little interest in swapping them out for other bags in various sizes and colors.  Perhaps if I was the corporate type, I'd have enough purses and shoes to match all my color-coordinated outfits.  But the truth is I work in the home, so there is no need to purchase a bag to match my bathrobe or another to match a pair of ratty shorts and a t-shirt with a ketchup stain on it ( "Excuse me Sir, does this purse come in the color of red splotches and sweat stains?).  I own a simple, utility brown bag that matches nothing and therefore matches everything.... and is large enough to stuff half of my house into it.  There might even be a kid or two inside.  I've never understood women who are capable of managing several purses at one time, and am a bit envious of their ability to match their bags to their shade of toenail polish.
     My purse is one of those special organizer bags that has millions of separate compartments like the squares in a shadow box.  I'm convinced these bags were designed for women with Attention Deficit Disorder.  I can pack all kinds of stupid stuff in my purse, like a half-eaten lollipop, an uncapped lipstick and a crumpled napkin from last month's garden club luncheon.
     I'm slow to change, but I'll admit that when I'm forced to buy a new purse, I feel hopeful, like I've been given a second chance to organize my life and start all over again...as if the purse defines who I am.  New purse, new me.  The old bag is tossed into my closet, the graveyard for all my mismatched, outdated purses.  This includes my baggy giraffe tote, a leopard print handbag, a gold, sequined purse that has seen better days and a tiny, black leather pouch that dates back to my college days when all I needed was a driver's license and a tube of lipstick to score a free drink at the bar.
     I kept my cheetah print purse the longest, despite the holes in the lining where unknown amounts of makeup and coins have disappeared.  Animal print bags used to be sexy.  If I carried one around now, I'd look like a menopausal, middle age woman lugging around a dead zebra.  Why I ever wanted a bag that resembled a large, exotic animal, I'll never know.  Thank God I wasn't keen on elephants.
     With the New Year only months away, I feel it is time to purge the clutter, start fresh and venture into the dark abyss of my organizer handbag that is not so organized.  Some people feel that a woman's purse is a reflection of her housekeeping skills.  The opposite is true for me; I keep a clean house but the contents of my purse look like the aftermath of a tornado.  I don't care because there will be no unexpected visitors knocking at my door to crawl around inside my purse to judge my cleaning skills.
     If my purse could talk, it would tell you that I am usually distracted while I am carrying it around on my shoulder and that I am negligent about throwing anything away.  My purse doubles as my personal trash can.  I just keep forgetting to clean it out.  My husband once ventured inside my purse in search of an insurance card.  Moments later he looked like a shell-shocked soldier returning from the battlefields.
     Once I start fishing around inside the black hole that is my purse, the first thing that I encounter is a set of keys, most of which belong to my house.  Unfortunately, there are also keys to houses of neighbors who have long since moved away and keys to a car I sold five years ago.  There is also a single aspirin, three nickels, a tampon that has torn free from it's wrapper (tells you how long it has been since I've had a period!), a mini toothbrush that looks like it was used to scrub the grout in my bathroom tiles, one fuzzy, stray mint, expired credit cards, an old granola bar, cracked reading glasses, pens that have run out of ink, a deflated tube of sunscreen, dental floss, antacids and a receipt from Walt Disney World dated 2007.  Oh, and that sticky stuff at the bottom of my purse?  A melted chocolate bar from Halloween.  I have plenty of the boring stuff in there, too---cosmetic bag, cell phone, hairbrush, wallet---the purse can hold anything, which is why I like it.  I can stuff an extra pair of shoes in it, a change of clothes, a water bottle and enough food to last a week in the wilderness.  I don't understand women who pay thousands of dollars on designer bags the size of a postage stamp.  I'll keep my ugly, suitcase-size purse until it finally expires from neatness neglect.  And then I'll buy another one just like it, which I promise will remain clean and organized...for at least the first month.

     Thanksgiving is my favorite time of the year.  The stress of Christmas shopping hasn't begun yet---no standing in line at 3:00a.m. for dolls that burp, hiccup and pee in their pants.  I get enough of that at home . No maxing out credit cards that suck the life out of my finances and take the majority of my adult life to pay off.  No blinking lights synchronized to hip-hop Christmas music or re-gifting of moldy fruit cakes from 2009.  Does anyone actually eat those things?
     Thanksgiving is the day for cooks to shine and foodaholics to weep in gratitude.  It marks the beginning of a season where calories are ignored and food babies are conceived.  Everyone gathers around the t.v. to watch the Macy's Day Parade in the morning.  Little do they know that by evening when they waddle out of my house, they will closely resemble those giant floats hovering over Central Park.  There's a reason stuffing is called stuffing, and I don't think it has anything to do with the pilgrims.  None of them sported the nickname "Butterball" after the feast.  Only Americans feel inclined to gobble, guilt free, mass quantities of poultry, starch, gravy and sweets on this special occasion.  And a lot of people eat it twice in one day, because everyone knows that afternoon football marathon just wouldn't be the same without a leftover turkey sandwich, beer, and a side of re-heated, mashed potatoes.  Finish it off with a slice or two of pumpkin pie and you've had a traditional Thanksgiving holiday.  Too bad we can't attach pop-up timers to our stomachs like the ones that come with our turkeys---at least then we'd know when to stop stuffing our faces before our stomachs explode.
     For my family, Thanksgiving starts early with coffee and mimosas, while my husband makes the raw turkey dance in the sink (too many mimosas) before he washes it.  The bird is always a large one---my husband searches for weeks for the perfect turkey---one the size of an ostrich.
     Once the bird is in the oven, I put the family in charge of peeling the potatoes while I fix the other side dishes and sneak a piece of pecan pie.  Once on the lips, forever on the hips?  Who cares, it's Thanksgiving!
     The mob that I call my extended family arrives in the afternoon and the gorging begins.  There is enough food on the table to feed a Third World Country.  Football is on but the room is unusually quiet---no one has the energy to yell or cheer for their team because they're already in a food coma.
     I pack up the leftovers after everyone leaves and wonder as I always do, why there's always so much lime jello salad left.  Probably because every year someone makes a comment about it resembling something that came out of The Hulk.  It may look gross, but it tastes great, and it has been a tradition in my family for as long as I can remember.  Maybe I'll pass the recipe down to my grandkids and rename it Hulk Jello Salad.
     The next day I know better than to step on the scale.  It actually cringes when it sees me enter the bathroom.  Looking in the mirror, I notice the gobbler that has grown on my neck overnight.  I'm even more convinced that I am a distant cousin of the turkey when I lift up my sleeves and see giblet arms.  No need to contemplate the stomach---I already know that's the final resting place of the stuffing and mashed potatoes I ate the night before.  Time to lace up the sneakers and hit the jogging trail...well, maybe after one more slice of pecan pie.


MOM'S GEORGIA PECAN PIE

3 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup dark corn syrup
1/4 tsp. vanilla
1/4 cup melted butter
1 cup whole pecans
1 pastry shell (homemade pie crust is best but store bought will do)

Mix all ingred. except pecans. Spread pecans on the bottom of the pie shell. Pour in the filling on top of the nuts. Bake at 350 for 50-60 minutes or until knife inserted in pie comes out clean



MOM'S SWEET POTATO CASSEROLE

3 cups cooked, mashed sweet potatoes
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 stick butter, melted
1/4 cup milk
1/2 tsp. vanilla

Mix all ingred. and place in casserole dish. Then make the topping as follows:

1/2 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup flour
1 cup chopped pecans
1/3 stick butter, melted

Combine ingred. and sprinkle over sweet potatoes. Bake at 325 for 30 minutes.  Serves 6.

     My daughter convinced me to watch The Rachel Zoe Project on the cable network, and as I'm staring at these twenty-one-year-old, anorexic-looking models, I'm thinking two thoughts: 1)Someone should tie these girls down and force-feed them doughnuts, and 2) Was I ever that young? Right now I feel more like something an anthropologist unearthed from King Tut's tomb. My brain is still stuck in 1981 but my body has fast-fowarded into a new century populated by people with graying hair, pot bellies and elephant skin. Is this really the generation I was born into? What happened to disco balls, leather pants and Boy George? If someone had told me thirty years ago I'd be spending my weekends in the backyard using a pooper scooper, I would have laughed in their face. My husband feels the same way every time he gets behind the wheel of our prehistoric mini van that should have been shot years ago to be put out of it's misery.
     For the most part, I'm young at heart. But some days I feel like it's time my kids wheel me into a nursing home and spoon-feed me soup. I'm already getting flyers in the mail pestering me to buy burial plots and to join AARP. Just the other day I was on the walking trail with my husband when I noticed a vulture following us overhead. He circled for a mile or two, just waiting to see which one of us was going to croak first. My husband raised his fist to the bird and shouted, "We're not dead yet!!"
     And what's up with the age spots? I never had spots on my skin, then suddenly I woke up one morning looking like a leopard. I rushed over to the dermatologist, convinced that I had some weird skin disease. She just chuckled and said, "Welcome to middle age!" Now the spots are all over me---enough that if I get bored, I can play connect-a-dot on my skin. Some dots are larger, some smaller, some are lighter while others are darker. Some are the size of Africa. By the time I'm eighty, I'll look like one giant, brown, age spot, because all of the dots will have connected. Then I'll just look like I have a great tan without even trying.
     My eyes have also gone to hell. My mother promised me when I was little that if I ate my carrots, I'd have good eyesight. She lied. I'm blind as a bat, and if I'm not careful, I may end up hanging upside-down in a tree with my new, furry, winged friends.
     The lack of energy is what kills me. I used to be like the Energizer bunny until my batteries corroded. I've heard that fatigue is common with menopause, but come on, my sleep patterns could rival that of Sleeping Beauty. Except I don't wake up to a kiss from a prince...just dog slobber and the sound of toilets flushing. Mega doses of caffeine are the only reason I'm still standing on two feet at the end of the day. I am a human percolator.
     The thing that really makes me feel old is the contents of my nightstand drawer. When I was newly married, that drawer contained candles, gels, lingerie and all sorts of naughty items geared for fun. Opening the drawer now, the first thing I see is a tube of cracked-heel foot cream. Next to it, another colorful tube of antifungal cream. What else? A bottle of magnesium, aspirin, lip balm, a calorie counter and the crumpled wrapper from a chocolate bar. There's also a container of foot pads and ear plugs, a broken pair of reading glasses, nose spray and a mouth guard. Sounds like a shopping list for a convalescence home. I suppose I could throw in a few pairs of Spanx, support hose and some high-heeled orthopedic shoes to make it more interesting...to an eighty-year-old.
     Time to embrace the vulture years!

     Devil juice can be defined as: "Juice made from a winery in hell, designed to create multiple personalities in those who imbibe by introducing their alter egos to the general public."
     My husband is an avid beer drinker, but once he switches over to the dark side of wine, he becomes a different person.  Just like a woman with raging hormones in the throes of menopause, his mood can change drastically.  I never know which alter ego of his I will be dealing with---McBastard, Cuddle Bear, Sleepy from the Seven Dwarfs or a Teletubbie.  These personalities don't kick in until he has uncorked his second bottle of red wine.  He could paint the house, wax the car or install new plumbing and not remember a thing in the morning.  Sometimes he morphs into Jimmy Hendrix and plays air guitar to Purple Haze, while other nights he dons a cat mask and dances to the Meow Mix theme.  I don't worry too much about his alter egos as long as he's not scratching in a litter box, marking his territory or trying to lick my ankles.
     My husband claims that devil juice alters my personality as well.  He says that I change from lamb to lion to human gummy bear after a few glasses of vino, which has convinced me to buy cheaper wine and dilute it with ice water.  Gross, I know, but we can't have two comatose adults in the back yard.
      Years ago we owned a gift basket shop and were fortunate enough to come across case loads of good quality champagne at a discount price from a local wine dealer.  Most of the bottles ended up in our kitchen cabinets instead of in the baskets they were intended for.  A close friend of ours who bought several cases called it forget-me-not champagne because she woke each morning after drinking it not remembering what she did the night before.
     We have plenty of wine that could sport the same forget-me-not label.  Wine comas rob you of chunks of time you can never get back, until one day you find yourself crawling around on all fours in a video on YouTube.
     After enough glasses of devil juice, my husband is convinced he's the next Iron Chef.  He fixes weird sandwiches like bologna with garlic croutons or peanut butter, jelly and roasted turkey, then tries to get everyone else to eat his creations.  Guy Fieri he is not.  Vino turns me into Paula Dean---I want to slather butter on everything.  Some of my tastiest concoctions were created after a few glasses of devil juice---problem is I consumed major calories and I don't remember what I ate, only that it was more difficult to zip up my jeans the next day.
     You would think two middle age adults would not want to lose track of precious time by blurring their weekends with devil juice.  There's just something not right about a man in a cat mask drinking wine.  Next weekend he's changing his own litter box.
      What can I say?
      The devil made him do it!

     I started my first diet in middle school after a fellow student accused me of looking pregnant because my blouse was so "puffy" around my stomach.  I didn't know how to explain to him that my stomach size was the result of a food baby, not a real baby.  All those years of sneaking chocolate bars at the park with my sister were beginning to show around my middle, and I had to do something about it.  Like adopt the diet of a rabbit---all parsley and lettuce and no fun. 
     My body shrank and expanded like an accordian over the years as I bounced from one diet to another.  In my early twenties, it was all about leg warmers and sweat bands at the gym in order to keep the pounds off.  Then came my pregnancies, which was a happy time for me because being pregnant gave me license to do some serious bulk eating.  Little did I know how all those pepperoni pizza slices were going to take up residence on my hips for the next twenty years.  I had a brief reprieve when Phen-Phen became popular.  What an amazing diet pill!  You could lose ten pounds in your sleep, paint your entire house in one day, and fit into a size 3 dress by the end of the week.  Sadly, it was banned (all the good stuff is) and it was back to old fashioned dieting: carrot sticks and lettuce and me feeling more and more like a rabbit each day.
     For years I ate right, excercised, and kept the weight off, and then something strange happened when menopause hit.  It was as if aliens stole my body and replaced it with a much plumper, sweatier version.  I gain five pounds now just looking at a piece of devil's food cake.  What cruel joke is this?  I finally don't have to count the days on my calender to calculate when my period is due, but now I'm left to obsess over the numbers on the scale.  If I could have a conversation with my scale, it would go something like this:

     ME:  "Good morning, scale.  I'd like to weigh in today because I've been really good on my diet this week."

     SCALE:  "Aren't you forgetting about those chicken nuggets you stole off your son's lunch plate when he wasn't looking?"

     ME:  "Yeah, but those don't count because they were just bites.  I didn't eat a whole one."

     SCALE:  "And the Hershey's bar?"

     ME:  "Hey, that was a Halloween fun size candy bar.  That doesn't count, either."

     SCALE:  "What about the three slices of all-you-can-eat-toppings pizza you had Saturday night?"

     ME:  "I don't remember that because I drank four glasses of wine first, so that definitely doesn't count."

     SCALE:  "And the secret rendezvous you had with the leftover lasagna yesterday morning?  Who eats a cold wedge of lasagna at 7:00 in the morning?"

     ME:  "It was part of a nutritious breakfast and...okay, you got me there.  Maybe today is not such a good day to weigh in."

     SCALE:  "Ya think?  Besides, you might damage my frame if you step on me now."

     ME:  "That's rude of you."

     SCALE:  "Just saying...now go back to your lettuce leaves and don't bother me again until you're serious about this dieting stuff.  Oh, and by the way, is it my imagination or are you growing whiskers and longer ears lately?"

     My doctor told me to expect a ten pound weight gain during menopause.  I think she was being kind.  What makes no sense to me is how much I sweat during a hot flash---I look like I've just run a marathon, so I ought to lose at least a pound of liquid a day in the process.  I should resemble a stick by now, not a basketball.  Pretty soon I'm going to have to call Omar The Tent Maker to design my next wardrobe if I don't lose this excess menopausal weight.
     Everyone laughs about marijuana munchies, but what about menopausal munchies?  They're worse because they last all day and night without leaving you in a state of euphoria.  The FEED ME valve won't shut off in my brain, and nothing seems to alleviate it except more food.  My stomach expects every day to be Thanksgiving with all the trimmings.  Instead I have to settle on plain turkey burgers, steamed broccoli and sugar free jello.  Yummy.  At this point I'm ready to gnaw on the frozen package of stale corn muffins in the back of the freezer.  If this was a kinder, gentler world, women would lose weight during menopause, their skin would glow and their hair would become thick and shiny.  Unfortunately, everything is turned upside-down in menopause---we gain weight, our skin dries out and the only thing that's thick and shiny is our thighs stuffed into a tight pair of black slacks.  Sometimes I feel like throwing my scale out the window and slipping into a roomy house dress with large, flower print.  I could eat doughnuts all day in front of the air conditioning vent and get caught up on all the latest nighttime television dramas.
     And the next time my scale talks back to me, I'm going to duct tape it to the wall as a decorative antique.