Menopausal Mother

     Today I'm celebrating my one year blogoversary. There have been a lot of changes around here since I stepped outside of my prehistoric bubble to learn how to turn on a computer.  I was once the clone of Donna Reed, the nurturing mother and wife catering to the needs of my family.  The laundry was always neatly folded into squares, meals were cooked from scratch, shelves were dust-free and the floors were spotless.  But deep inside, a small voice kept whispering, "Eat the cupcake, eat the---" no, not THAT voice!  It was the other voice that kept nagging at me about the unfinished book manuscript collecting fuzz balls under my bed.
     I continued to ignore the voice until I learned about blogging. I was equally fascinated and intimidated by the concept of exploiting my life in the blogosphere, where I could be either loved or ridiculed for my views.  But I figured, what the heck? What did I have to lose other than my dignity (that ship sailed LONG ago)!?
     With a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and my laptop in the other, I composed my first blog post, which was much easier to write after the third glass of vino (*see "First Menopausal Moment" 8/27/11).
     Starting a blog was one of the best decisions I have made, but not without some sacrifice.  My addiction to blogging has created setbacks in other areas of my Donna Reed lifestyle; changes that my family hasn't wholeheartedly embraced:

*  I seldom have time to run the vacuum cleaner these days---you could knit a sweater and matching scarf set with the amount of dog hair embedded in my carpets.

*  I discovered that the microwave is a mother's best friend.  I've learned to be creative when it comes to putting dinner together.  Each night it's a surprise smorgasbord of leftovers from the dark depths of my freezer, also known as No Man's Land.  Amazing what you can create with a lone hotdog, a sad-looking waffle and a bag of freezer burned peas.

*  A raging caffeine addiction.  Forget the coffee pot.  Just give me the whole damn bag of coffee and I'll chew on the grounds like it was granola.  My husband claims that caffeine overload has turned me into a whirling dervish (a.k.a. Tazmanian Devil).  It's all fun and games until I'm wide awake, sitting alone in the dark at 3:00 a.m. and wondering if I should join a nocturnal commune of bats.

*  Due to the aforementioned insomnia, my eyes are often puffy and ringed dark like my new cousin the raccoon.  If I keep this up much longer, the airlines are going to charge me double for the extra baggage I'm carrying under my eyes.  The pale pallor of my skin after a restless night doesn't help, either.  I'm thinking I should apply for a job as an extra on the set of The Walking Dead.

*  My husband thinks I have gone underground in the witness protection program because he never sees me.  The untouched stash of Butterfinger candy bars is evidence that I've been missing for a long time.

*  I stare at the computer screen so much now that I've upgraded my 1.5 readers to 2.5.  Just last week I enrolled my pet pug into a seeing eye dog class so he can navigate me from my refrigerator to my home office.  I just need to teach him how to post a blog with his front paws.

*  I'm always looking for new blog followers.  If my husband was more agreeable, I'd dress him up like a giant Cheeto and have him dance along Federal Highway with my website address plastered across his orange belly.

*  My nightmares have turned into blogmares, and they always have something to do with Teletubbies and Mothra.  Freud would have a field day with that one.

*  My family finally figured out that I haven't done laundry in months.  You can only get away with spritzing dirty clothes with Febreeze for so long.

*  Lack of exercise.  I used to power walk six miles a day.  Now I'd rather stay home, eat pancakes and become a blogger blob.

     Sacrifices?  Plenty.  The cost of a good blog post?  Priceless!

     I think I'm losing my mind. Seriously. I used to be a compulsive organizer and proud of it. The spices in my spice rack were placed in alphabetical order from anise to turmeric. My closet was color coordinated along with the contents in my under ware drawer. Shoes fit snugly in shoe trees according to heel length and seasonal use. And all of my photo albums were neatly labeled and shelved in chronological order. Freakish to some, but at least I wasn't cultivating a dust bunny farm.
     I was never late for a function, and I could easily juggle work with the kids' karate/cheerleading/    
gymnastics/choir/ballet classes effortlessly while entertaining company and serving up a homemade five course meal Martha Stewart style. Wonder Woman had nothing on me.
     And then something changed when I entered my menopausal years. It started with the keys. Took me thirty minutes one morning to find them...in the refrigerator between the yogurt and an old bag of potatoes that were starting to grow roots. I kept forgetting to throw them out---something the pre-menopausal me never would have done. The keys? I swear I didn't leave them in the refrigerator. Surely someone was playing a prank on me---had to be my mischievous kids playing that "Lets-Drive-Mom-Crazy-Until-She -Is -Willing-To-Increase-Our-Allowance-And-Never-Make-Us -Clean-Our-Rooms-Again," game.
     My glasses disappeared the following week and I walked around like a blind mole bumping into furniture and eating what I thought was a brownie but turned out to be a charcoal briquet. How do you find glasses if you need your glasses to find them?
     It wasn't long before I was forgetting appointments with my hairdresser (which explains why my hair looked and felt like  worn out Brillo pad). It also explains  why the last time I showed up at the doctor's office to get my cavity filled for a tooth that ached, the nurse reminded me I was there for a colonoscopy and that yes, they were certainly going to fill a cavity while I was there.
     What the hell was happening to me? Did all the crazy, drunken weekends from my college years really destroy THAT many brain cells ( I knew that weekend in St. Louis with my sorority sisters was going to cause some long term damage some day)?
     It was karmic retribution for all of those times I poked fun at my husband for his Attention Deficit Disorder. I thought it was rather endearing to watch him struggle to remember what he walked into a room for (Your sunglasses? They're on your head), or when he stomped through the house and stubbed his toe while searching for his iPad (in the bathroom next to the toilet where you sat for an hour playing
raccoon relay races). I had to suppress a giggle each time he accused the kids of losing the TV remote  when all along it was nestled between his butt cheeks on the couch. His ADD also worked to my advantage when it came to arguing---all I had to do was throw around a few incidences and conversations from the past, which of course he could never remember, and I always came out on top.
     Now the tables have turned, and my mind has taken a seat on the crazy train somewhere between this birthday and my last.
     Cooking is one of my passions, but what good is it if I get distracted and add salt instead of sugar to a recipe, or bake a loaf of bread that turns into a lumpy pancake that even the dog turns away from: "Lady, I may be just a dog, but even I have some standards. You can't pass off this crap like it's manna from heaven!" If the dog is insulted, he pees on the furniture to exact his revenge---or maybe it's just because I've forgotten to walk him in awhile, which explains the cobwebs on the dog leash.
     Some days I forget to take my vitamins, especially the fiber pills. This can be dangerous for all the wrong reasons---something akin to a septic tank on the brink of failure.
     While it is a relief to learn that memory loss and menopause hold hands and skip gleefully down a path together toward their best friend dementia, it is equally disturbing to discover the alarming rate for which it is happening. Think of all the women out there who are forgetting to fold the laundry, cook dinner or pick up the kids after school while they're sitting in a Starbucks sucking down a Frappuccino. How about the ones who take the wrong exit ramp for work and end up in a nail salon or at a bingo hall in Arizona?
     My mother suggested that I start doing crossword puzzles to sharpen my mind. I tried this, but I think my brain is too far gone, because I couldn't remember the three letter word for donkey.
     So what am I going to do? Make myself a margarita (or three) to help myself forget what I can't remember.
     By the way, have you seen my glasses?

     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!





 


   


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     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!