Menopausal Mother

     In two months I'll be celebrating the one year anniversary of my blog, and what a year it has been! I've had more success blogging than I ever imagined, and am humbled by the support I have received from family, friends and fellow bloggers. Most recently, I have received several nominations from the blogging community for awards that I am honored to accept and excited to bestow upon other bloggers I believe worthy of recognition. The people I have chosen have made me feel very welcome in the blogging community. I have kept up with their blogs and enjoyed getting to know them.
     I chose a variety of blog winners for their diversity and creativity. The subjects range from motherhood to politics, poetry, menopause, photography, fashion, sexuality,writing tips, aging, fatherhood and the single life. With each award comes a set of rules and some pretty strange questions that I was reluctant to answer...but it's all in fun and in the spirit of the award, so what the heck--- I answered them all.
     I was graciously given 3 awards, and would like to address them one at a time.  The first is the Kreative Blogger Award, given to me by Roe at  http://ramblingsfromanupsidedownlife.blogspot.com/
Thank you, Roe!

     The rules for the award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to the awarding blog.
2. Answer 7 questions about yourself.
3. Provide 10 random factoids about yourself.
4. Hand the award to 7 deserving others.


(7) QUESTIONS/ANSWERS

1. What is your favorite song?
     Impossible to answer this since there are well over 1000 "favorites" on my iPod playlist. Christmas music always puts a smile on my face. Problem is people look at me funny when I'm humming Jingle Bells in July. I guess my all-time favorite song is an oldie called, "Moonlight Serenade",  because of its sentimental value.

2. What is your favorite dessert?
     I can only pick one? Napoleans. No, make that warm apple pie a la mode. Wait, no, I like chocolate fondue. Or key lime pie. Okay, okay, it's really chocolate eclairs...I think. What was the question again and why am I so hungry?

3.  What do you do when you're upset?
     You don't want to know. Just back away slowly and pretend we never had this conversation.

4.  What is your favorite pet?
     This is like the dessert question. I can only pick one? I like pugs. I also like koala bears, barn owls and kangaroos, but apparently I'm not allowed to own any.

5.  Which do you prefer, white or whole wheat?
     It depends on what we are talking about. Bread? Pasta? Pancakes? I can't imagine ANYONE wanting to know the answer to this, but I'll be a good sport and tell you that I PREFER white. When you get OLD, you are expected to eat twigs and bark to keep your body "regular" (keeping your plumbing in fine, working order). So I eat whole wheat. There. That should make my doctor happy and my bathroom busy.

6. What is your biggest fear?
     Drowning. Flying. Cockroach stampedes.

7. What is your attitude mostly?
     That depends on how caffeine-infused my body is at the moment. If the levels are high, chances are you'll meet a chipper/hyper menopausal mother. If the caffeine level is low because someone else beat me to the last dregs in the coffee pot, then you're going to encounter a woman who is one step away from needing a straight jacket.


(10) RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME

1. I was raised on classical music but I love Dubstep. Skrillex is my favorite to listen to while tackling the grout in the shower stall.

2. I have 6 pet chinchillas and a rabbit that I let run freely in my room while I sit on the floor with them and read the newspaper. Perhaps I'm related to Dr. Doolittle.

3. I was involved in 6 car accidents my sophomore year of high school---never the driver, always the passenger. No one wanted to drive with me anywhere after that.

4. I was THAT girl in the red satin disco pants and sequined tube top at the microphone, belting out tunes in the early 1980's.

5. One of my greatest accomplishments was winning the blueberry pie-eating contest at the Presbyterian church when I was seven...with my hands tied behind my back.

6. I am obsessed with squirrels, much to the embarrassment of my family. My house is decorated in  cottage-style, faux squirrel habitat.

7. I threw up sloppy joe sandwiches in the first grade, and to this day when I look at a "Manwich",  I still feel queasy.

8.  I was raised in a household with parents who were wine connoisseurs, but I'll drink any rot gut that comes my way.

9.  I love butter and mayonnaise and make no apology for it. Eat your heart out, Paula Dean.

10. I am a Disney World aficionado. There is no place I'd rather be, and I really do believe it is a magical place, pixie dust and all.


THE (7) BLOGGERS I GRANT THE KREATIVE BLOGGER AWARD TO ARE:

http://singlewritermomrants.wordpress.com
Theresa @  http://myheartblogstoyou.blogspot.com
Lanthie@   http://www.lifecherries.com
Nicole@     http://tongueofdogsbreakfast.wordpress.com
Kc@           http://Ketchupchipsusa.blogspot.com
Sandra@     http://shecantbeserious.com
Crazymama@ http://keepingyouout.blogspot.com


     The 2nd award I won was the Sunshine Award, from Sandra at  http://shecantbeserious.com
Thanks, Sandra!

     The rules are as follows:

1. Include award logo in a post or on your blog page.
2. Answer (10) questions about yourself (oh God, not again!!!).
3. Nominate 10-12 other fabulous bloggers.
4. Link your nominees to the post and comment on their blog, letting them know about the award.
5. Share the love and link the person who nominated you.


(10) QUESTIONS/ANSWERS


1. What would you most like to change about yourself?
     My stomach. I'm tired of carrying around a ten pound food baby. After having four kids, I don't want to carry around a fifth one.

2. What's your theme song?
     I'm torn between Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" and One Republic's "Good Life".  I grew up feeling like I was a little different from everyone else (my sense of humor was always a bit "off"). Can't help it--I was born this way. Then I met my husband and found a soul mate who shares my skewed sense of humor. We gave birth to four children with diverse personalities and the same warped humor, and they provide the fodder for most of my blog entries. Together we have created a good life.

3. One part of your life, a memory, action, etc. that you wish you could surgically remove from your brain?
     Can't believe I'm admitting this to the entire blogosphere, but at my 35th birthday party ( long ago and far away..) I drank a stupid combination of champagne, vodka and cranberry juice. It didn't sit well with me, and I was wearing a white outfit...the dry cleaners never could get that pant suit clean. I have no recollection of the party because I could barely stand up on my own, let alone eat a piece of birthday cake. Cranberry juice has never tasted quite right since that incident.

4. What generation do you wish you had been a part of?
     I wish that I had been a teenager in the 1950's. Poodle skirts, Saddle shoes, T-birds and drive-in theaters. No microwaves, cell phones or computers. The simple life.

5. What was your favorite childhood toy?
     These small, rubbery dolls called Kiddles. I was obsessed with them---collected every size, shape and color they came in. I was a Kiddle hoarder, and I was fiercely competitive about my collection. I opened up a lemonade stand on my street, earned enough money to buy out the corporation that produced them and built my own Kiddle empire.

6. What is your favorite housecleaning chore?
     Does such a thing exist? Do people other than Snow white's Seven Dwarves actually smile and whistle while they work? I don't like ANY part of it. The only time housework is fun is when I'm cleaning out the refrigerator and stumble upon someone's hidden piece of Mississippi Mud Pie. "Finders keepers, losers weepers".

7. Do you Twitter?
     Isn't that what birds do in trees? Sorry, I don't have wings or live in a nest, therefore, no Twittering.

8. Any goals?
     Yes, to finish answering these strange questions as quickly and painlessly as possible.

9. Do you really drink margaritas all the time?
     Huh? That came out of left field. I prefer mojitos, but no, I don't drink them all the time because if I did, my tYpInG would be slurrrred on my bog#@*! blog...

10. ***This question was missing from the blog site that gave me the Sunshine Award, so I'm just going to make up one of my own.***    What is the ugliest car you've ever driven and were embarrassed to be seen in?
     A 1994 Previa minivan with missing hubcaps. It looked like a giant hemorrhoid on the street.


THE (12) LUCKY BLOGGERS I AM GIVING THE SUNSHINE AWARD TO ARE :


http://Rumpunchdrunk.blogspot.com
Brian@  http://trickstereric.blogspot.com
Mara Paz@   http://africatoalgarve.blogspot.com
Jon@   http://jonwhiting55.blogspot.com
Noir Ha@  http://simplynoir.net/
Sandra@   http://www.awriterweavesatale.com
Roe@   http://ramblingsfromanupsidedownlife.blogspot.com
Gossip_Grl@   http://myworldaccordingtomeii.blogspot.com
Kate@   http://www.makeshiftmummy.com
Shia@   http://worldaccordingtoshia.blogspot.com
Cat@   http://sassycat44.blogspot.com
Susan@   http://quirkygrandmother.blogspot.com

     Have fun all of you, answering these questions!

     The third blog award, known as the Fabulous Blog Award, came simultaneously from 3 different bloggers. Thanks to Gossip_Grl at  http://myworldaccordingtomeii.blogspot.com,  to Susan at  http://quirkygrandmother.blogspot.com, and Brian @ http://trickstereric.blogspot.com.

      Rules to the Fabulous Blog Award:

1. Thank the blogger who gave it to you and share the link back to the awarding blog.
2. Name 5 fabulous moments in your life.
3. Name 5 things that you love.
4. Name 5 things you hate.
5. Pass the award to 5 deserving bloggers. ***Since I won the award twice, it's only fair that I DOUBLE the amount of blog nominees!


(5) FABULOUS MOMENTS


1. The day that I got married. I was late to my own wedding (gave my husband a good scare!) because I was busy slugging down mimosas to calm my nerves.

2. When we bought our first home together---a ginger bread, cottage-style house. Pink. My husband went out and bought paint right away.

3. Giving birth to my four children, putting myself knee-deep in diapers and debt...and loving every minute of it.

4. My 50th birthday costume-required party. Nothing like seeing a bunch of middle-aged people wearing ill-fitting costumes and dancing to Lady Gaga.

5. Becoming a grandparent for the first time and realizing that I am officially older than dirt. Time to buy orthopedic shoes!


(5) THINGS I LOVE


1. Animals---my husband accuses me of being an animal hoarder because we have 10 pets. Noah and his Ark have nothing on me!

2. My Family. They are my top priority as long as they don't interrupt me while I'm blogging/eating/napping/reading/watching Diners, Drive-ins and Dives.

3. Chocolate. It doesn't matter if it's dark or milk chocolate, bars or chunks...I love it all. Just don't ask me to share.

4. Coffee/energy drinks. It enables me to do more stupid stuff at a faster rate.

5. Cooking. I'd give away my Ove Glove just to spend 10 minutes with that hottie Guy Fieri!


(5) THINGS I HATE


1. Ear wax and dirty nails. Go take a damn bath!

2. A dirty dish drain. I'd rather sell my left kidney on the black market than clean that thing out.

3. Left turns at major intersections. That oncoming traffic looks like a rushing herd of buffalo stampeding toward me. If the whole world could just move in a clock-wise motion, everything would be just fine.

4. Snoring. My husband snorts like a pig in a trough when he sleeps. He has several remedies for this situation---he wears a special boot for his Plantar's Fasciitis, two wrist bands for Carpal Tunnel and a nose strip for snoring before he comes to bed. He is beginning to resemble an NFL linebacker or The Terminator. All he needs now is the CPAP machine for his sleep apnea---then he can go to bed looking like something out of "Alien".

5. Clutter. Random cups, socks, toys, sandals, beer bottles, candy wrappers...when I see these things  scattered around my house, I go into full-blown menopausal madness. Someone needs to restrain me before I gnaw through the leather straps.


THE 15 BLOGGERS I NOMINATE FOR THIS AWARD ARE:


http://jleesblog
Tiffany@   http://singlewritermomrants.wordpress.com
Honest B@   http://the-honest-bitch.blogspot.com
Cate@   http://cateartios.wordpress.com
M  Monaghan@   http://www.mjmonaghan.com
Belly Dancer@  http://evescrochet.blogspot.com
Shar@   http://Sharmartinez.blogspot.com
Nell@   http://www.theramblingcouchpotato.com
Brenda@   http://paganinme.blogspot.com
Kitty@  http://Kittys-pitara.blogspot.com
Nash Nordin@   http://ai-foodies.blogspot.com
Diana@   http://dianasphotography.blogspot.com
Joan@   http://joanrb.blogspot.com
Cecille@   http://flipinayweeblether.blogspot.com
linsey@ http://linsey-organizedchaos.blogspot.com

     Congratulations to all of my blogger friends, and good luck with the questions. Show the love and pass it on!





 


   


     .

     My husband thinks I'm every man's dream wife. Is it because I have blonde hair, bake an amazing rum cake, get drunk pretty easily or because I've learned to keep my mouth shut when he's watching a basketball game? Absolutely not. I'm the dream wife because...I HATE SHOPPING! A lot of my lady friends (yes Brigitte, I'm talking about you!) will think I'm nuts for admitting this, but I could care less about designer labels, sexy stilettos or sparkly bling on my fingers. My idea of shopping is lounging on the sofa and thumbing through a Squirrels R Us catalog in search of rodent play accessories.
     The Christmas holidays are a nightmare for me, because I'm forced to go shopping to pick out stuff for OTHER people. This always leaves me feeling a bit queasy and guilt-ridden (for buying them stupid stuff like macrame pot holders) or frustrated for not saving myself some time by getting a handful of generic gift cards. I'd rather have a root canal than troll the malls like a pack mule with numerous shopping bags looped through my arms.
     I am seriously wardrobe challenged, but there always comes a point in my life when I have to go shopping, because my clothes are:

     1)  Out of style (yeah, I know, shoulder pads went out years ago when Dynasty went off the air in 1989).

     2)  Too tight (okay, I promise I'll stop getting that extra dollop of whipped cream in my Starbuck's coffee).

     3)  No longer intend for pregnancy (um...the last kid was born sixteen years ago, but oh, I love those elastic waistband maternity pants!).

     4)  Easily recognizable from being frequently worn. At parties, people keep telling me they like my outfit, and they notice that I must like it too, since I'm still wearing a red Christmas vest with embroidered reindeers on it in the middle of July.

     5)  Worn out. My clothes have more holes in them than a bullet-ridden Model T driven by gangsters during the Prohibition Era.

     Once the clothes in my closet look like they were salvaged from the trunk of a junkyard car, it's time to visit the "house of horrors" I call the local shopping mall.
     Walking through  crowds of cheerful women holding armloads of dresses and men thumbing through stacks of sports jerseys, I find creative ways to avoid the clothes racks. I'll visit the book store, grab a cup of coffee (hold the whipped cream, please) sniff a few Evergreen-scented candles and idly pick lint balls off the store carpet...before I realize how much time has passed and that it's WAY to early to start the cocktail hour.
     First I pass the lingerie department (yeah right, like I'm going to try to squeeze myself in to a hot, pink number the size of a rubber band just to please my husband), which leads me to the aisle where all the bras are hanging like double boulder slingshots (definitely NOT trying on one of those). Shoe section, jewelry, maternity outfits..."Oh, look at those cute, faux denim stretch pants designed to hide a pregnancy bump..." I self-consciously rub my stomach...nope, no baby in there...just the jelly roll the last kid left behind.
     Eventually I pick out a few items (actually, it's twelve, because I grabbed a sampler platter of three different sizes of each outfit). I have no idea what the size du jour is going to be, since my mouth decided that "diet" was a dirty word.
     Wishing to God that I had a shot of vodka to bolster my courage before stepping into the torture chamber (a.k.a dressing room), I loiter around the clearance rack (looking for more lint balls to pick) until a skinny, perky salesclerk approaches me. Her chipper tone sets my teeth on edge when she asks if I'm ready to try on my new clothes. Can't she see that I am breaking out into a hot flash sweat over the moment of truth when my actual dress size will be revealed?
     I am ushered into a mirrored cubicle the size of Thumbelina's closet and told to "have fun" while trying on the clothes. I'm too busy looking for a mini fridge with a bar in the dressing room to respond to the clerk.
     Peeling off my old, comfortable clothes is the hardest part of all. Unless you're built like a model instead of a middle-aged mother of four children, this is where the true horror begins. Because I have to view myself in panoramic 3-D funhouse mirrors that display my front, back and sides. But unlike a carnival, these mirrors aren't warped. My body is.
     Oh. My. God. This is when I experience THE MOMENT; those awful, first few seconds of not recognizing the reflection staring back at me. Immediately I experience an identity crisis---am I a pear, apple, or a pale jellyfish bobbing on the surface of the ocean?
     Deciding that the department store must have gotten a really good deal on mirrors from a traveling circus, I begin weeding through the pile of clothing. One floral print dress fits me like an oversized shower curtain. An orange blouse makes me look like an Oompa Loompa, while an ill-fitting pair of jeans has my flesh oozing out over the top like pale Playdough from a squeeze tube. To make matters worse, the entire act of struggling into torturous clothing designed to compact my muffin top is all done under the unflattering, fluorescent lights that mercilessly expose every fold, flap, bulge and scar bestowed upon the body from childbirth and years of yo-yo dieting.
     I quickly grab armloads of clothing that promise to lift, tuck, flatten and flatter the body...and everything comes in one shade. Black. So what if I end up looking like Batman's grandmother or a widow in mourning for a year? At least I'll look thinner, tighter and slightly squeezed into place like a stack of Pillsbury biscuits in a tube roll, ready to pop.
     I leave the store with a triumphant smile on my face and a bag of clothing resembling the wardrobe in a mortician's closet. Thankfully I won't have to go shopping for awhile. My new clothes should last at least until the Mayan Calendar ends.

                                                                             
 I'm a pretty likable person. Dependable. Responsible. Compassionate. I'll laugh at your corny jokes just because you think they're funny. I'll let my fettuccine Alfredo congeal while I sit on the phone and listen to your latest family drama that sounds like it was scripted from the Bravo channel. I'll even babysit your pet wolverine and never, ever force you to attend a Tupperware party with me. I'm the loyal friend/wife/mother whom everyone likes to have in their corner.
     But then there are those ominous days when I'm ready to whip out the chain saw, and you'd better start running if you don't want to lose a limb...or something worse. Blame it on the moon, hormonal imbalance or the fact that ABC cancelled Desperate Housewives; I have no explanation for it. There are no warning bells or weather forecasts advising you of an impending hurricane. It just...happens, and that's when I become the Luke Skywalker you never knew---the one who gives in to the dark side. The kids take cover and the husband decides it's time to actually run all those errands I asked him to do six months ago (sorry, but you can't use snow shoveling as an excuse in July). My lightning temper and Medusa gaze will turn you into ashes or stone, so the LAST thing I want you to
do is tell me that someone already ate that last slice of chocolate rum pie in the refrigerator. Or that you accidentally threw my favorite "dry clean only" blouse in the washing machine.
     Years ago when my mother was angry over a perceived injustice in our house, she'd threaten, "Heads are going to roll!"  As a teenager, I thought that was a bit drastic, if not archaic.
     Now I understand. Hot flashes. Insomnia. Mood swings. Weight gain. Bloating. And for crying-out-loud, thinning hair! Little crop circles are forming at my temples from years of ponytail abuse. Suddenly I've morphed into the sadistic Queen Of Hearts shrieking after Alice, "Off with her head!" No Pollyanna sweetness here while I'm in the throes of a menopausal meltdown. You'd better learn to duck, dodge and snap on some protective gear.
     It takes a day or two (okay a week) for my sanity to return. Once I've purged those nasty, ill feelings like an overdose of bad seafood, I make sure that the carnage I've caused has been neatly vacuumed away and peace restored to the kingdom.
     And what about the king? Men rarely get much notice in the matters of menopause. They can "share" in our pregnancy joys and woes, but I don't know any man willing to take on night sweats, fatigue, cellulite or vaginal dryness second only to the Sahara Desert (yes, I said it). They don't ask for these symptoms but they suffer through them anyway, because most women don't want to deal with this stuff alone. Misery loves company after all.
     I know plenty of females dealing with this so-called "awesome" change-of-life experience. And some of them deserve it. But what do the husbands do when their wives switch from sporting a Victoria's Secret wardrobe to wearing large, flower print tarps and fluorescent Crocs?
     For the "maleopause" perspective, I turned to my friend and fellow blogger Kc, and asked him to fill in the gaps here for the bewildered females teetering on the edge of hormonal imbalance.
     The first time I read Kc's blog at http://KetchupchipsUSA.blogspot.com/  I was hooked. He shoots straight from the hip with blog posts that are witty, raw and opinionated, and I find his honesty a refreshing change in the blogosphere world. His posts make you think, possibly spark a debate or two, but his sharp command of the English language and unique brand of humor keeps me coming back for more...which is why I have asked him to do me the honor here of sharing his perspective on "maleopause."





     I'm honored that Menopausal Mother asked me to write a little something from the male perspective about female menopause. I warn you, I'm not a church deacon, nor am I "ecologically focused." I'm just like all the men you know, but I have a pen. I said a pen!
     Some perspective. Half of me says I'm not worthy; the other half says I have a valid point of view, and the third half says, "run away---danger lieth ahead!" I guess that makes three halves, which explains why I can't do my jacket up anymore. Menopausal Mother is a gifted writer, and her readers mean a lot to her. I hope I don't offend them all!  

     Let me give you a simple primer from the male perspective. As you might suspect (they are going to kick me out of the club for this), men are not that complicated. Our "feelings" are something we show ONLY if we think it might get you to take your shirt off. We have only two emotional states---hungry for food and hungry for...something else.                                          
     But there is a deeper perspective.
     One that we don't talk about in front of you.
     The other truism is that we are all scared, little boys inside. We are afraid that you won't like us; that you will think we are weak and that we can't fix everything(or anything) just by squaring our jaw and forging ahead. We're desperately afraid that you aren't happy, and truth be told, we'd give up anything we have to make you happy. Now, we can't TELL you these things because the first rule of the Fight Club is that you don't talk about the Fight Club, but we really do think about it.
     You gotta trust me on this one.
     We can't fix what you are going through, so we make rude jokes, fiddle with tools, watch sports on TV, give each other high fives and hope that you all don't notice that we are essentially useless. And we men take as a given that we cannot tell you how much we really, really, really care about you. And that is hard.
     Maleopause is a myth. It is punctuated by loud cars, "road trips" and ogling 25 year old waitresses in a ridiculous, compensatory, desperate and flaccid attempt at pretending that we still have relevance in your lives; our own lives are actually measured more by what YOU do, than what we've done.
     Your grace and beauty at this time in your lives is something we can never understand or appreciate or even cope with. So the next time we open a door for you, or pull back a chair at a restaurant or even call you "Honey",  know that it comes straight from the heart, and we mean it. With all our hearts. We're just too weak and scared to say it.
     And every once in a long while if you could forget your shirt, that would be okay, too...

http://KetchupchipsUSA.blogspot.com

      I've noticed a growing trend of people my age frantically scrambling to complete a "Bucket List" of things they hope to accomplish before they die.

     "I'm going to climb Mount Everest with nothing but a camera and a granola bar in my pocket!"

     "I'm going to bungee jump off the Empire State Building on New Year's Eve!"

     "I'm going to break the world's record by riding on Walt Disney World's Space Mountain for ninety days straight until I'm diagnosed with vertigo!"

      No thanks. I'm pretty content with all the things I've seen and done in my lifetime. I have a husband, four great kids, eleven pets and an endless supply of chocolate biscotti and mediocre wine. What more could a girl ask for? I have all that I need, but there's also a reverse Bucket List going on here, which includes the things that I hope NEVER to accomplish. Maybe I've become jaded with age...a bit cynical and crabby at times (blame it on menopause), but one thing is certain; I know what I DON'T want to do with the rest of my life. Whether it's out of fear or self-preservation, it doesn't matter because the things on my reverse Bucket List  are not going to happen (unless aliens replace me with a look-alike pod person who will confuse my family and friends with a sudden desire to skydive from a burning airplane onto a massive ocean liner in the middle of the Devil's Triangle). I have valid reasons for not wanting to do certain things, which absolutely justify my paranoid tendencies.

WHY I DON'T...

FLY:    No amount of cocktail peanuts or vodka martinis is going to get me up in the sky. I'm a sucker for all of those airplane crash documentaries, and there hasn't been a tranquilizer invented yet that's going to erase those images from my brain. Honestly, if God intended for us to fly, we would have sprouted fuzzy, gray wings  at birth and flown the coup before our first tooth came in.

EAT WEIRD FOOD:    Like escargot, caviar, raw oysters and frog's legs...because they're chewy, fishy, slimy and I can't bear to think of all the paraplegic frogs out there bound to wheelchairs.

GROCERY SHOP:    Dangerous territory for me. I would spend way too many hours trolling the bakery aisle, and I don't think my family would appreciate it if three-fourths of our grocery budget was blown on cheese danish and banana cream pie.

TAKE A VACATION ON A CRUISE SHIP:    I have one word for you: TITANIC.

POKE A COBWEB:    Spiders are smart. They're never around when you mess with their webs, but in reality they're lurking close by, sizing you up, figuring out how much sticky thread they'll need to produce  to wrap you up tighter than an Egyptian mummy.

ROLLER BLADE:    There's no way those little wheels are going to support my weight rolling down the pavement at 50 mph. I can think of better ways to spend my time than in an emergency room with a fractured elbow and watching reruns of The Simpsons on the hospital television.

DRIVE ON MAJOR INTERSTATES:    Because everyone drives like they're Mario Andretti pumped up on amphetamines and late for their weekly anger management therapy.  

KILL COCKROACHES:    As gross as these bugs are, the stuff that comes out of them when you squish them is even more disgusting. I prefer to spray them with poison until until they become a new breed known as "white albino cockroaches". There's also this little thing called karma...and the last thing I want to do is return to this world as a bottom feeder waiting to be snuffed out under the heel of someone's shoe.

GIVE UP SUGAR:    Are you serious? Anything worth eating has sugar in it, calories be damned!

WATCH HORROR MOVIES:    When I was a teenager, it took me months to forget the image of the demon possessed, head-spinning Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Then came Poltergeist, and I didn't sleep for a month after seeing it, convinced that my house had been constructed over a sacred Native American Indian burial ground. It was only a matter of time before those Indians were coming back to haunt me and reclaim their land. Nor was I keen on getting sucked into the television set by demonic spirits.
     For years I lived blissfully ignorant of anything frightening at the movie theaters, until my kids convinced me to watch The Ring. They assured me it was not at all scary, and being the naive parent that I obviously am, I agreed to watch the movie and settled in with a bucket of popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other.
     Stupid me. I spent the entire two hours of the show curled up in the fetal position and silently cursing my wicked children for tricking me into watching the scariest movie I had ever seen in my life! Oh sure, I could have left the room or covered my eyes, but who does that? Okay, so I did cover my eyes, but I couldn't stop peeking through my fingers at the screen.
     And I wish that I hadn't, because I spent WEEKS sitting up in bed at night, just waiting for a creepy girl with stringy, black hair to come crawling out of my television set. That movie was my introduction to the true meaning of insomnia.

WHITE WATER RAFTING:    Flying down a rapid river at break neck speeds in a rubber boat with my ass scraping over rocks is not my idea of fun.

WATCH NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SPECIALS:    Although they're educational, I'm not into watching polar bears tearing apart seals or jaguars tackling baby deer for a midday snack.

GIVE PUBLIC SPEECHES:    I'm convinced that everyone is staring at the nervous outbreak of pimples on my chin or the microscopic spot of butter on my blouse from last night's lobster fest. My tongue turns into sand paper when I look at the audience and my words come out in an endless stream of nonsensical junk.

WEAR A BATHING SUIT IN PUBLIC:    I might be mistaken for a beached whale and get tossed back into the ocean.

    My Bucket List? Just getting through the day without crossing paths with a colony of cockroaches (or angry Indian spirits and creepy girls stuck in television sets). But I wouldn't mind sitting back with a glass of mediocre wine and watching some fool strap on a bungee cord for a courageous leap into the unknown.

     From the moment they're born, our children are a tremendous source of pride---first words, first steps, the gold star on their progress reports, the lead role in a school play...we are always there, cheering them on, sharing their accomplishments with anyone willing to listen. Our children are a reflection of ourselves, and our parenting skills are often defined by their behavior. When they're a giggling toddler passing gas on a crowded elevator, everyone thinks they're adorable.  A sixteen-year-old competing in a belching contest with his sibling in a five star restaurant...not so much. The older they get, the more embarrassing they become. They morph from the cute, cuddly puppy stage into a snapping, snarling beast that has been raised in the woods by wild boars. They curse like sailors and eat mass quantities of food that triple the grocery bill by the end of the month. Sweets and salty chips are the largest part of their food pyramid, while milk and juice are consumed at an alarming rate---usually a gallon a day. Their vocabulary  reverts to their roots---as in the cave man days ---limited to grunts, groans, and the occasional "whatever" shrug. The parents they once adored and respected  are now a large source of their embarrassment, so it is with great pleasure (and a lack of conscience) that they choose to publicly annoy and embarrass adults. They will gleefully belch and fart in a crowded room and point a finger at the unsuspecting parent next to them. They will tell their grandparents that there are only three ingredients in their refrigerator at home---one grayish looking egg, a carton of sour milk and a moldy brick of cheddar cheese that looks like last year's school science fair project. The grandparents will take pity on their souls and drive them to the nearest McDonald's.
   
     Kids will spill tomato sauce on the white carpet and blame it on the dog; they'll steal all the quarters out of the change jar and blame the younger sibling. They'll use the last clean towel in the house so that you're forced to dry yourself off after a shower with the wet towel that you used on the dog bathed earlier that day.
   
     Every parent reaches a breaking point with their children---a time when they need to liberate themselves from the bonds of "politically correct" parenting.
   
     Because sometimes you just have to get even. You can call it one of "life's little lessons", or refer to it for what it really is: Karma is a bitch.
   
     The following is a payback list that has been especially effective in annoying our teenagers and will most likely be successful with yours:

1)  Crank up the lawn mower outside their bedroom window when they're trying to sleep in late on a Saturday morning.

2)  Ask twenty questions about the TV show they're watching, but wait until they're immersed in the thickest part of the plot.

3)  During one of their house parties, run into the room with a wet plunger dripping in your hand and shout, "Okay, who clogged the toilet???"

4)  Pick up the six, wet towels they left on the bathroom floor and deposit them on their unmade bed. Be sure to tuck the towels under the covers so they stay moist.

5)  Allow your youngest child to bang on his new drum set while his older sibling is trying to take a nap.

6)  Turn on the sprinklers while your daughter is sunbathing in the back yard.

7)  At a neighborhood block party, jump up on a table after a couple of beers and play air guitar to a Bon Jovi song.

8)  Call your son's friends "Dude" and "Bro".


10)  Blast Barry Manilow on the car radio while driving your kids and their friends to school. Make sure all the windows are rolled down so that EVERYONE in the car loop can hear you belt out the lyrics to "Mandy".

11)  At your son's sixteenth birthday party, borrow his best friend's BMX bike and show those young whippersnappers how to fly over a speed bump and rack yourself on the bicycle seat.


 12) Write a blog about your family life and highlight all the personal stuff that will make your kids cringe and want to disown you.
   
     Revenge has never been sweeter!

     I wasn't always this way. Six months ago I didn't have a clue as to how to turn on a computer. Didn't even  know what  Safari or Internet Explorer was. I'd see my kids feverishly typing replies on Facebook and my husband sharing YouTube videos with his friends...and I just didn't get what all the fuss was about. Most evenings after dinner everyone in the family had their noses buried in their computers. Except me. I preferred to spend my nights curled up with a good, old-fashioned, paperback novel.
     My husband decided to ease me into the world of technology slowly. First came the hot pink iPod he bought me for my birthday. After dozens of failed attempts to find and store my favorite songs (I'm so technologically challenged, I couldn't figure out how to scroll through play lists or adjust the volume), I threw the expensive gadget at my husband and told him to take the stupid thing back to the store for a refund.
     A glutton for punishment, the poor man tried once again by giving me a Nook the following Christmas (this time he inched away slowly as I unwrapped the present). I plastered  a smile on my face, thanked him for the lovely gift, and promptly deposited it in my under ware drawer because I had no intention of ever using it. I liked my paperback novels and no fancy gadget was going to replace them.
     A year later, my kids found the Nook, dusted it off and shoved it into my hands. It was time for me to step out of the disco era and learn some technology.
     It took awhile, but I finally got the hang of it and actually looked forward to reading my favorite novels on the Nook at bedtime.
     The true test came last summer when my husband dragged me to a computer class for beginners. My first day there, it was a bit disheartening to see that I was the only person present without hair the color of a Q-tip. As much as I wanted to bolt from the room, I forged on and slowly began to grasp the exhilarating freedom of internet exploration. I had stepped into a brand new world, and there was no way I was going to crawl back into the dark cave I had come from, where finger painting buffalo on the stone walls with berry juice was the norm. It was as if I'd been invited into a secret society of Facebook users, email fanatics and YouTube addicts. Google became my favorite word of the day, and I wanted everyone to know that I was finally hip to using a computer.
      And then I heard about blogging. I was fascinated by the concept of sharing my opinions and personal experiences on the internet, to bare my soul to millions of people around the world and then leaving myself open to their colorful comments on my blog posts.
     Oh, I was hooked. I began reading hundreds of blogs, contacting authors and eventually setting up my own blog site. Pretty soon I was eating all of my meals by the computer and avoiding telephone calls. The bills were paid late and dirty dishes filled the sink. Laundry seemed like an archaic concept, so I just let it pile up like Mount Rushmore. Home cooked dinners became store-bought meals heated in the microwave as my cooking skills took a back seat to my computer skills. Even chocolate could not distract me from my  computer, which would explain how I dropped a few pounds. The scale was smiling at me for the first time in years. Who knew blogging was more effective than diet pills for weight loss?
     What once amused my family now annoyed the heck out of them. They were sick of eating frozen pizza every night and walking around in wrinkled clothes that smelled like a ferret's cage. They would stand beside my desk and wait for me to acknowledge them, but my brain had turned into blogger zombie mush, and all I could do was stare blankly at the computer screen.

     "Who are you people?"
     "We're your children!"
     " I have kids? When did that happen?"

     "Honey, there's a herd of elephants stampeding down the street and they're headed for our house!"
     "Okay...just sprinkle mozzarella cheese on them and bake them at 400 degrees."

      It was no use. They tried plying me away from the computer with wine, chocolate truffles, a Disney vacation, a puppy...I was lost in a zombie land daze, where every blogger survives on large doses of caffeine and a list of followers longer than the phone book.
     And then the unthinkable happened. Out internet went down during a storm, and I was without my beloved computer for the entire weekend. At first, panic set in. Then anger and blame...sort of like Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief. I wandered aimlessly through the house and checked the cable connection every five minutes to see if the power had been restored. Meanwhile, my family was desperately searching for a Bloggers Anonymous support group.
     I was forced to brush the cobwebs off the stove and actually use the appliance to cook a healthy meal for my family. Next, I tackled the overflowing basket of laundry. Some of those pants were so dirty they could have sprouted legs and carried themselves out the door.
     After wiping the film from my eyes, I saw my family clearly for the first time in months.

     "Oh yeah, now I recognize you...you're the son I gave birth to sixteen years ago...and there's the daughter I celebrated a twenty-first birthday with...and hey, isn't that handsome man over there on the couch with a beer in one hand and the television remote control in the other my husband?"

     Welcome back to the land of the living!
     The internet was finally restored and my computer hummed back to life. I circled it a few times, caressed its shiny top and dreamed of all the new blog posts I'd like to write. I knew there were hundreds of  emails just waiting to be opened, but I resisted the urge to touch the keys and focused on my family instead.
     The obsession is still there; I've just learned to harness that energy into more productive things...like organizing my spice rack or cleaning out the dryer lint trap.
     The zombies are still calling to me, and some nights when the house is quiet and the caffeine is singing through my veins, I can't resist opening my laptop and blogging with the rest of the insomniacs of the world...as long as my husband isn't waiting outside the window with the garden shears, ready to snip the cable line!

     What is it about men and fire?  Is there an instinctive need for heat rooted deep inside their troglodyte souls?  When I was a little girl, I feared that my house would burn down because my brother's favorite hobby at the time was lighting matches and flicking them behind the headboard of his bed.
     During my teen years, my best gal pal and I were often badgered by a nutty gas station attendant with a deranged grin who gleefully referred to himself as a firebug.  "Really, dude? Why don't you pitch a tent on Mercury and enjoy your summer there?"
     I guess it should be no surprise that years later I find myself with not one but two firebugs in my house.  My son discovered at an early age the thrill of melting a plastic, toy soldier over a hot stove and was notorious for sticking sharp objects into electrical outlets just to see the sparks fly!
     My husband never displayed any firebug tendencies----he preferred getting his illumination outdoors with an LED flashlight.  But all that changed three years ago during an unusually long "cold spell" in Florida (we hit a whopping 60 degrees...brrr....).  My neighbor convinced us that an outdoor fire pit would be the perfect entertainment feature for our backyard garden.  We agreed, and within the course of a weekend, the masterpiece fire pit was built.  Just the sight of it brought warm, fuzzy visions of friends and neighbors gathering around the fire to roast marshmallows and sip hot coffee laced with brandy.
     Once the fire pit was completed, my husband looked for any excuse to build a fire ( "Honey, it's Bastille Day in France, time to celebrate with a fire"..."Honey, the dog didn't throw up his dinner, let's celebrate with a fire!" ).  He became obsessed with daily weather reports and checked the outdoor thermometer every ten minutes to see if the mercury level dipped lower than 70 degrees.  Perhaps that explains all the puddles beneath the thermometer and the sudden disappearance of ice cubes from our refrigerator.
     Those first few months by our fire pit  were everything I had hoped for, but winter soon gave way to spring, and by June I reminded my husband that it was time to dismantle the fire pit and replace the area with bright flowers.  He solemnly agreed, and off he went to the nearby garden shop for a fresh batch of spring flowers.  An hour later he returned home with only one item---an industrial size, ugly brown misting fan that rotated and spit water while you roasted in hell.
     Unwilling to give up his new found obsession with fire, my husband insisted we gather around the flames every weekend to share stories and roast marshmallows until they resembled lumps of coal on a stick.  He dubbed these evenings "Funday Sundays, and plied his guests with plenty of beer and wine so that they'd sweat and learn to enjoy the heat as much as he did.
     The smell of smoke brought the neighbors to our backyard just as my husband had hoped, but they were only there to make sure that our house had not burned down in the July heat.  What he doesn't know is that I had secretly waved our bedroom blanket over the flames to send up a smoke signal for help.
     You think hot flashes are bad?  Try having one while you're sitting by a towering wall of fire in August.  They are known as double hot flashes, and they are not nearly as much fun as a double hot fudge sundae.  These are truly the hot flashes from hell that leave you feeling like that marshmallow on a stick that's about to be squished between two graham crackers.  Even with the misting fan blowing at the highest speed, our friends sat perspiring in a circle like people meditating in a sweat lodge.  I had hoped that one of the benefits from all the sweating would be the loss of some excess weight, but licking all the melted marshmallows off the sticks counteracted any chance of weight loss.
     The problem with fires in Florida during the summer months means that there is no firewood available, so you have to get creative.  My husband would burn anything to keep the fire going---twigs, pine cones, a roll of toilet paper, his credit card statements...and once out of desperation he raided a box of feminine products from under my daughter's sink.  Pretty soon my neighbors were scratching their heads in bewilderment because they couldn't figure out what happened to all their lovely shade trees.
     Whenever firewood is sparse, my husband calls our nephew, R.J. (a.k.a. Mountain Man), who could easily beat the competition on Survivor.  R.J. has the uncanny ability to find wood anywhere---he sniffs it out like a bloodhound.  I swear this guy carries an ax in one pocket ( and a beer in the other ) because he learned at an early age to always BE PREPARED.  Both he and my husband become a little giddy after the holidays are over because of the abundance of discarded Christmas trees just waiting to be burned.
     It isn't just the amount of fires my husband is burning that bothers me as much as the size and intensity of the flame.  My tallest trees now have singed tops and there's ash all over the patios.  NASA called because they wondered what that white spot was on the map of Florida.
     There's something soothing and intimate about sitting in the darkness with the crackle and pop of a fire. It brings out the best  (and sometimes worst) in people.  They huddle close and confess their worst secrets ("Hey Bro, remember that expensive mountain bike you thought was stolen in 1995?  I accidentally crushed it with my station wagon one night after too many beers and buried it in a dumpster...but we're still friends, right?"). Some people get a little too amorous by the fire and need to either go back to their own bedroom or go to a hotel.  They also burp and fart and toss their beer bottles into the pit.  Give my husband a few glasses of wine by the fire and the next  thing you know  he'll revert to his roots and start doing ceremonial dances around the flames to the tune of Beyonce's "All The Single Ladies."  I don't think he learned those moves in the Cub Scouts.
     We do have some new rules about fire pit etiquette:
     #1.  There will be no consumption of beans one hour before sitting around the fire.  If you've seen the movie, "Blazing Saddles", then you know why this rule must be strictly enforced.
     #2.  You may not burn foreign objects in the fire, such as last night's leftover "Fiesta Surprise" casserole,  all those receipts from Donut World, Chocolate World and Wine Around The World, the baby's dirty diapers after a bout of dysentery, or the kitchen garbage that you were too lazy to drag out to the curb. Large pieces of cardboard should be outlawed as well because they lift up in a draft and hover like fiery bats from hell before flapping their way toward your hair.  Just put the guest you like least near the area of the fire where the draft is the strongest.  They'll soon get the hint and leave.
     #3.  My favorite and most important rule of all is the one R.J. came up with, and for obvious reasons...WHAT HAPPENS AT THE FIRE PIT, STAYS AT THE FIRE PIT!