Menopausal Mother

      I'm doing the happy dance today on Wacky Wednesday Writers because I have one of my favorite funny bloggers guesting on the site! Please welcome Stephanie from http://whencrazymeetsexhaustion.com! Not only do her Facebook statuses and blog posts keep me in stitches, this girl VLOGS and the camera just loves her! She is beautiful, sweet and funny, and I adore the way she expresses herself. Hey, she's an English teacher, so you KNOW her writing is good! Stephanie has a large following already and I predict a LOT of success for this talented lady. Please welcome her to Meno Mama's site and share some comment love!

1. Turn Signal. Let’s break this down: a signal is an indication that something is about to happen. A turn is a change in your car’s direction. As such, a turn signal should be an early indication of a car’s deviation from its original course. So, please, please: use your turn signal. And I don’t mean just as you’re about to make your turn; I’m talking about far enough in advance to let those behind you know you’re turning. Otherwise, I will be all up in your ass. And by in your ass, I mean in your trunk because TURN SIGNAL.
   
   
2. The Yield Sign. This is a tricky one. It’s not quite stopping, yet it’s not quite going. We should rename it the “take a look before speeding through it” sign. Maybe then people would understand what to do once they’re face-to-face with that confusing upside down triangle.
   
   
3. The Turning Lane. I personally love me some turning lanes. They’re super convenient and allow the flow of traffic to keep on…well, flowing. Unless, of course, some stupidface doesn’t know how to properly utilize the turning lane and comes to a full stop in the regular lane of traffic causing my blood pressure to push through the car roof and explode onto the pavement. I mean, really, is it so difficult to merge 5 feet over to make your turn? If you’ve answered yes to that question, punch yourself in the face and put your license in the nearest paper shredder.
   
   
4. Pulling Out. Did you just giggle when you read “pulling out?” It’s okay, me, too. Anyway, this is pretty subjective. When are you far enough away to effectively pull out in front of another car? Here’s a general rule of thumb: if you pulling out causes the oncoming car to slam on her brakes and scream curse words to the universe, you’re probably too close for the successful pull-out. That said, if you do somehow manage to get on the road without me rear-ending you, for the love of all that is holy, DRIVE. Don’t slow down and sight-see. Don’t decide at that moment you have to fiddle with the radio dial or find your cell phone that probably went flying into the backseat as a result of the high rate of speed with which you cut me off. DRIVE LIKE THE WIND because I am behind you, under the assumption that you are trying to tend to an emergency situation where you will save someone’s life. Why else would you be driving like such an idiot?
   
   
5. The Speed Limit: Unlike the topic of pulling into traffic, the speed limit is much more objective. As in, it’s explicitly stated so follow it. I admit it: sometimes I speed. Yes, I exceed the posted speed limit and no, I’ve no particular place to go. I’m not perfect. But know what I don’t do? I don’t ride the car in front of me tighter than a pair of hip-huggers whilst traveling the legal rate of speed. Why? Because I’m not a douche. If you’re in that big of a hurry that the speed limit doesn’t apply to you, buy a helicopter and piss off.
   
   
6. Stoplights: Another admission: sometimes I look forward to red lights so I can finish jamming to a song before reaching my destination or <GASP> check my email on my phone. But I am well aware of my position at the red light, and fully anticipate that sometime in the near future it’s going to…say it with me…TURN GREEN! And if you’re anything like my 2-year-old, you understand that green means GO! So, go. Seriously, GOOOOOOO! Quit filing your nails, picking your nose, or texting your BFF. You can do it, put your back into it, and GO.

Stephanie loves words, hates math, and has a penchant for making people uncomfortable with her honesty. An English teacher by trade and a smack-talker by nature, Stephanie’s family often tires of listening to her speak. Fortunately, her blog,WhenCrazyMeetsExhaustion, affords an acceptable medium to verbally vomit all over the Interwebs. She has written other stuff for different sites, but no one cares. You should be her pal on Facebook and Twitter because that’s what a decent person would do.

   
Welcome to another Fly On The Wall group challenge, hosted by karen of http://www.bakinginatornado.com. Thirteen bloggers are participating today to give you a glimpse into their private worlds. This month, that pesky fly crashed my birthday celebration and aimed right for the coveted birthday cake. I swatted him away from the sugary confection, but this is what the uninvited guest overheard:

     "Isn't it great becoming a year older? You recognize all the music playing in elevators and mysterious skin tags show up in your arm pits."

     "How would you like to spend your birthday?"
     "Tipsy shopping and drunk eating, of course."

     "The rabbit just peed all over my foot. Do you suppose that's his way of wishing me a happy birthday?"

   
 "You'd better stop poking fun at me for getting a year older. I have BIG plans for you."
     "Oh yeah? Like what?"
     "When you turn eighty, I'm going to strap you into your wheel chair with duct tape, slather you with peanut butter and sunflower seeds, then leave you out in the backyard all day to become a human bird feeder."

     "The first person who buys me adult bladder leakage pads for my birthday will be placed on pug poop patrol for an entire month!"

     "There will be no talk of corn porn on my birthday."
     "Why not? Don't you want to be 'buttered up' on your special day?"
   "Oh gawd, I'm living with a pack of neanderthals."

     "It's pretty sad that I can sum up the past year of my life in five words: wine, Nutella, squirrels, blogging and menopause."

     "I think you'd better slow down on the partying. It looks like you've either jammed or broken your finger. Do you need to go to the emergency clinic?"
     "Are you kidding? I can't do that. You were just there to have eight stitches put in your hand. That doctor is going to look at our double injuries and think, 'What have you kinky-ass people been
doing?'"

     "What are your plans for your birthday?"
     " Cleaning up the chinchilla's poop."
     "My, you lead a glamorous life."

     "I already know what I'm giving you for your birthday: a coupon organizer, miracle wrinkle cream made from goat pee extracts and a lifetime supply of ibuprofen."

     "I'm so sweaty in this dress, I have to wing out my thighs."

     "Go ahead and eat the leftover grounds from your Turkish coffee. I need you to stay awake tonight for the party."

     "You're lucky---you can eat as much cake a you want because you have the metabolism of a gnat. Mine, on the other hand, is more like a turtle's. In this case, slow and steady does NOT win the race."

     "What? No sexy thongs for a birthday gift?"
     "Your butt floss days are over. But I WILL buy you a case of dental floss."

     "Did you give the pug your birthday dinner leftovers? He just farted and I swear it smells like Cantonese shrimp."

     "Nothing is worse than waking up with a hangover. I smell stale garlic and rum on my breath. I need a mouth douche."

     "Leftover birthday cake and ice cream at 7:00a.m. It's the breakfast of champions."


     The night of my birthday celebration, we closed down the restaurant.....because folks, that's how we do birthdays Doyle style!



****NEWS FLASH**** I have more, exciting news to share with you! Meno Mama is once again honored to be a contributing author in another newly released book, Sunshine After The Storm. It's a collaboration of stories from parents sharing their stories of pregnancy and infant loss. The book is beautifully written, providing hope and support to grieving families. It is currently available through Amazon.com. Order your copy today!





     Please be sure to visit all 13 bloggers participating in today's Fly On The Wall group challenge!

http://BakingInATornado.com                                     Baking In A Tornado

       Welcome to anther edition of Wacky Wednesday Writers! I am thrilled to introduce my new guest today, Kristi Campbell of  http://www.findingninee.com. I found Kristi last year through mutual blogging friends who told me about her awesome writing skills and asked me to check out her site. I'm glad I did. Kristi has a wonderful, quirky sense of humor and some hilarious illustrations to accompany her posts.
       There is also a poignant side to many of Kristi's blog posts. She shares her perspective on what it's like to be a special needs mom, and these entries often leave me in awe of her courage and strength as a mother. She also features writers on her Our Land series, which she describes as, "a place where empathy and wonder rule."
     I am proud to call this talented writer with such a beautiful heart my friend. Her post today had me laughing out loud after I read the very first few sentences!! She is discussing something that we tend to obsess about way too much in our home. I'm not going to tell you any more than that--you just have to read this post and see for yourself. Hilarious! Please be sure to check out the latest blog posts on her site and leave her some comment love while you're over there!

 




     Whenever I see a drawing of a bird, I think of my sister. Cherie had a fascination with birds and an encyclopedic knowledge of every species. She worked at a wildlife center and fostered the injured birds, but she had a particular fondness for the birds of prey. She took beautiful photographs of hawks, eagles and owls, and sketched them every chance that she had.  Her artistic skills were impressive, and whenever I studied her drawings, I felt more than her admiration for these birds; I saw a desire to share their fierceness, beauty, strength and freedom.

     Like a phantom limb, I still feel her presence here and an ache deep in my soul, hollowing me from the inside out.  When I close my eyes, I see her standing at the top of Beartooth Pass in Montana. She waits beside a meadow patchy with snow, a camera dangling from her hand as she gazes up at a cloudless sky in search of eagles. She turns to me, grins and aims the camera. I try to smile but my eyes burn from the snow's glare. The light is blinding.  My breath is shallow in the thin air, as if I am breathing in broken glass.

     Her ashes now drift across that meadow. I remember smoothing the white hospital sheets that covered her still form and thinking of that snow.

     I see her now in the hazy dreams of midnight where hundreds of
photographs fan across the years, breathing life into memories of her that still linger here:  horseback riding through the rugged mountains of Wyoming;  tears shimmering in her eyes at the Wagner Opera;

laughing with the sweet juice of bing cherries on our lips at the Pike's Place Public Market in Seattle; her radiant grin the first time I saw her holding her newborn son; the quiet reverence we shared in the butterfly garden when hummingbirds hovered above us; jumping in puddles up to our knees and knowing how silly we looked---two young women dancing  in muddy water while a storm raged around us. So many nights when I was young, she'd steal me from sleep for a drive along the beach. I curled beside her and watched the stars race past our window like silver glitter scattering across a black velvet sky. I had always thought she was racing against the moon. And I never knew why.


     My sister had an eating disorder. She was killing herself slowly, and I didn't know how to stop her. No one did. She wore her loneliness and disappointment like a heavy winter cloak, and I stood by helpless as the light in her bright hazel eyes dimmed to gray. A storm was raging inside, but she was no longer dancing in its rain. Something had broken inside her, leaving her heart cracked in too many places. She became like the wounded birds she once cared for.


     When the call came, I raced down darkened streets, saw the moon spin past my windshield and wondered if she remembered its pale, yellow face peering above the ocean's rim so long ago.
     Cherie was already in the deep sleep of a coma when I arrived at the hospital. I touched her cool hand and felt her standing at the foot of the mountain. Monitors then screamed their flatline goodbye and I knew she had already taken flight like the eagles.

     I drifted for hours, suspended between anger and guilt. The tiles on the hospital floor were cold against my cheek like snow; like the brisk air that had stung my face on the top of Beartooth Pass where I knew she had gone.


     I never said I was sorry. I stood at her funeral and delivered a eulogy to a crowd that needed to hear that she lived a beautiful and graceful life. And I was a hypocrite because I knew far better than that. She had been dying inside for years, and no one could save her.

     An autopsy report claimed that my sister died from pneumonia with a heart three times its normal size. Obesity does that. I prefer to think her heart was large because she loved so much.
     What I never said, never shared, was that morning after she died, a Red-Tailed hawk circled my yard and settled in the pine branches above me. I looked into his dark, unwavering gaze and saw my sister watching over me.
     Her ashes, now swirling over a snowy mountain top in Montana, will never settle. They'll twist inside my grieving heart until I feel the last breath of winter.






     

   
Today I am ridiculously excited to feature one of my favorite gal pal bloggy buddies---Sarah of http://thesadderbutwisergirl.com. When I first read her blog last year, I knew I'd found a kindred spirit when it came to our wacky sense of humor. Who else but Sarah would laugh at my lame jokes and goofy memes? She gets me. I cannot tell you how many times this special friend of mine has helped me through writer's block and glitches when it comes to my lack of computer skills.
     Sarah's blog ALWAYS leaves me laughing out loud and she is one of the sweetest bloggers around---always promoting everyone else's work in order to see them succeed.  Even though we have never met face to face, I love her to bits and consider her one of my closest friends. Please welcome this kind-hearted, hilarious lady to my site today and be sure to show her lots of love!      



      Much like Buddy the T-Rex on Dinosaur Train, my husband seems to have a hypothesis…

     When he does something nice for me, he believes that he is somehow accumulating points that could be redeemed at a later time.  Kind of like frequent flyer miles, only with less interesting destinations.

     Example:  “In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t played the Sims in two days.  I just wanted to make sure that you’re paying attention to that.  I get points for that.”
(In case you are lucky enough to live with people who don’t play video games, The Sims is a game where you tell pretend people to do stuff, like pee and eat.  You know, kind of like being a parent.  Fancy that.)

     Example:  “I’d like the record to show that I cooked dinner.  Remember that, I get points for that.” (Let the record show? Are we in court?)

     Points?  The last time I checked, there was no points system in place in our household for much of anything.  On one hand, what is he plotting? On the other hand, is this something I can take advantage of?

     After much thought and scientific(ish) research, I put together a system for marriage points.  I had to keep the following questions in mind: 

     What exactly should husbands get points for?  When can he redeem these points?   What can he redeem these points for?  If he doesn’t redeem them by a certain date, can he roll them over?

     Here is my not quite ready to be patented Marriage Points System:

1 point=Acknowledge existence of wife and children.
5 points=Pleasant demeanor around said wife and children.
10 points=Socks and underwear put in the hamper instead of in the general vicinity.
15 points=Zero mentions of football, video games, and other similar activities within a five hour period.
25 points=Cook dinner (Bonus points awarded for cleaning up afterwards)
50 points=Wash the dishes (because I really, really hate doing the dishes)
75 points=Take the children out of the house and away from the wife.
100 points=Do the things that need to be done around the house without being asked.
250 points=Send the wife out on a shopping trip that does not involve groceries or going to places with “wal” or “mart” in the title. 
500 points=Leave the wife a nice note with full sentences (to-do and shopping lists do not count).
One trillion points=Arrange a date night, including making the plans ahead of time AND finding the sitter.  (What? I need a night out.)

     Note:  Additional benefits of attempted points accrual may include happiness and extra video game playing/sports watching time. 

     Redemption of points is completely up to the wife’s discretion.
 
     Accrued points may be revoked at any time per review of husband’s behavior.
  
     So what do you say?  How about we all institute points systems in our houses!  What would you give points for?  


Sarah Almond is the creator of the wildly unsuccessful blog The Sadder But Wiser Girl.  Last time she checked she was the mother of two future Nobel Prize winners and the wife of one sleep deprived evil genius.  You can read up on just how much she loves chocolate and caffeine at 
http://thesadderbutwisergirl.com 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesadderbutwisergirl
Twitter: https://twitter.com/sadderbutwiser

 
 "Hello, my name is Marcia and I'm a facebookaholic." Yes, I'm coming clean about my addiction. Not a day goes by that I don't crave a fix in the form of a status update, a handful of "likes"or stalking the pages of my friends. If I go too many hours without a connection, I get fidgety and cranky. My palms sweat if I'm unable to answer my phone when it jangles with a notification from someone commenting on my status. I have nightmares of being lost in a jungle with no WiFi, and I've been known to scream at my internet provider during a hurricane if I'm unable to access my online connections.

     My addiction has disrupted my family life and affected my health. I now suffer from NBS (Numb Butt Syndrome), a direct result of sitting in a chair for hours while trolling through Facebook. Cooking and cleaning have taken a backset to my obsession. My poor family has been forced to survive on frozen dinners that have been sitting in the back of my freezer since 2005. I'm farming dust bunnies under all the beds and my cobweb festooned house closely resembles
Miss Havisham's home in Dickens' Great Expectations. My family finally reached a breaking point and staged an intervention after I whipped out my cell phone in the emergency room to check on stats while the doctor stitched up my injured hand.  They sent me to rehab for my addiction and presented me with a "Just Say No To Facebook" t-shirt after I completed the five step program.

     Sadly, it was all in vain. I could NEVER give up Facebook. It's my lifeline to a community of friends.  I'm not prepared to sacrifice my voyeuristic peek into the world that Facebook offers. I know what my friends eat, where they go for fun, what their kids are up to, how often their dog poops and where they shop for rash ointment.
     The only problem with Facebook is that it has very few guidelines for users to adhere to. You can get away with just about anything you post on your wall. During the election, the political bashing was unconscionable, but I muddled through it in order to read posts from others like me who steered clear of using the site as a political platform for sharing opinions.
     Facebook should design a manual that advises against the following:

GAME REQUESTS:  There are plenty of addicting games out there that border on being cultish. I avoid them like the plague. The amount of time I spend on the internet is long enough without needing to mainline Candy Crush or ask someone to buy me a pig for my virtual farm.

SELFIES:  I enjoy looking at profile pictures, but after awhile the selfies all start looking the same. They're usually taken at a high angle so that the person in the picture looks like they've had a face lift or Botox injections. Okay, so I'm guilty of selfies like this....but so is most of the female population over the age of forty.

TOO MUCH INFORMATION:  I don't need to know that the Burrito Supreme you just inhaled at Taco Hell is making you poop out a tri-colored bean piñata.

PHOTO TAGGING:  REAL friends do not tag you in unflattering pictures. It defeats the purpose of all your selfies. Nothing is worse than strolling through Lowe's to check out the sprinkler head assortment while someone is out there tagging you in a picture from last year's holiday office party. You know the one----it's that pesky photo of you when you were drunk and riding on the shoulder's of one of your coworkers....with an alligator snout on your face.

FAMILY DRAMA:  I don't want to read Act Three of your family argument over the cousin who slept with your sister's boyfriend, or the in-law who swears he didn't father your neighbor's new baby. If you want the whole world in on your drama, apply for a guest spot on The Jerry Springer Show.

HEALTH ISSUES:  It's not necessary to share the details of your uncle's testicular problems or your recent bout with a bladder infection. If you're seriously depressed, share it privately with your closest friends or seek professional help rather than cause alarm among the hundred or so people who follow your status updates. Unless you're hoping your friends send you sympathy chocolate... in that case, it just might be worth a large box of Godivas.

VACATION PICTURES:  Although I am happy for friends fortunate enough to be able to afford a little R&R, I'm also a tad bit jealous. While they're sipping wine at an outdoor cafe in the south of France, I'm vacuuming up dog hair clots and scooping Tootsie Rolls out of the cat's litter box.


     So why, if I have all of these complaints, am I still addicted to Facebook? In a nutshell: FRIENDS. We share funny jokes and memes, support one another through the tough times and celebrate our victories together. I can connect with people I haven't seen since grade school on the internet while still in pajamas and curlers in my hair. It's like one big online reunion minus the pricey reservations or stress over what makeup and clothing will shave ten years off my appearance. They have my selfies for that. In the meantime, I'll be the disheveled woman behind the computer in a bathrobe fuzzy with dog hair and toast crumbs in her lap.  
 


       

   
 I absolutely adore my guest blogger today on Wacky Wednesday Writers. Shay from http://www.trashyblog.com has me howling with laughter every time I read her posts.  She gives her readers a sneak peek into snippets of her private life and the escapades of her youth that many people would be too embarrassed to share. Shay is fearless in her writing, and that's what I love most about her.  The raw humor and honesty in her blog posts make her the perfect blogger for me to feature and I am so happy to be able to share her awesomeness with you here today! Shay calls herself a trashy skank but deep down this lady has a heart of gold and is one of the sweetest bloggers in the blogosphere.
     Please welcome Shay to Meno Mama's site today and give her some comment love when you finish snickering over her humorous post!




Before I knew what was happening, he had scrawled an angry picture of me all over his mini Etch-a-Sketch, the same mini Etch-a-Sketch that I’d recently bought him for when he was bored at church.
Ingrate.
The preschooler thrust it up toward my face to show me what he’d done.   “Look, Mom.  I drew a picture of you.”
I knew that he was angry with me and trying to make a point, but when I glanced down at the picture, I stopped in my tracks.  I simply couldn’t get past the vision of beautiful he’d just drawn.  I gaped in awe.  “She’s so thin…” I murmured, afraid to speak too loudly and ruin the moment.
My preschooler sighed.  “Yeah, Mom, but don’t you see?  She’s got a big X through her face—“
“You mean, her little dainty face?” I asked, happy tears threatening to spill over as I continued to gaze at the picture, now stroking it lovingly with my fingers.  I looked down at my boy and smiled sweetly.  “Is this how you see me?  With a cute little button nose?”
He huffily grabbed the Etch-a-Sketch and brought it close to his face, peering at it intently. “Mom, I didn’t even draw a nose --”
I snatched the Etch-a-Sketch back for a better look.  “Really?  Even better.”  I stood there, reveling at the smooth face, sans humongous nose, that he had drawn.  I was fervently trying to figure out if there was a way to plug a jump drive into that mofo so I could print out the portrait.  It was hard to do; I couldn’t move it too much for fear of shaking up the sand inside and ruining the picture.  
As I was trying, something else caught my eye.  “She…she doesn’t even have a gut,” I whispered, mesmerized by this supermodel pedestal that my son obviously puts me on.  I looked to him for an explanation.
My son rolled his eyes, his little shoulders drooping in frustration.  “It’s a stick figure, Mom.  You don’t draw bellies on stick figures.”
I thought back to all of the drawings I’d made of my best friend Leigh in college to get her back for nicknaming me Tori Spelling for the several “similar horselike facial features” that Leigh insisted I shared with the actress. 
“If you’re trying to be an asshole, you do,” I said to my preschooler, imparting one of the many lessons I’d like to make sure he carries with him through life.
My little guy sighed.  “The point is, Mom, that my drawing of you has a huge X through the face because I’m angry with you.”  Another sigh as he held out his hands.  “Just give it back to me.”
I held it higher in the air.  “Sorry, kiddo,” I said.  “We can’t shake this bastard up.  We’re saving it for life.”
As my son digested this information and became even angrier with me, I gently set the Etch-a-Sketch aside, bent down so that I was eye level with him, and cupped his face in my hands so that he felt the seriousness of the situation.  
“Don’t worry, Buddy,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.  “We’ll get you another Etch-a-Sketch—a bigger and better one.  Because you’ve obviously got artistic talent—no.  It goes further than that.  You’re a prodigy, child, do you understand this?  An artistic, Etch-a-Sketching prodigy.  And don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.”
My son is smart.  I saw those little wheels a-turning, and I knew that he understood that somehow he’d  failed to make his point with the Etch-a-Sketch and the X through the face.  
But he also knew that Mom had just called him a prodigy, and that that sure did sound like a compliment.  So he gave me a self-satisfied smile, nodded, and walked away to do little prodigy things.
I, on the other hand, snapped a picture of the Etch-a-Sketch just to have a momento in case someone accidentally knocked it off the top of the cabinet, where it is now proudly displayed.


Trashy Blog was created and is written by Shay, who posts once a week—normally on Fridays, when she has time to kick back with a beer and trash her skanky little heart out.  Check her out at www.trashyblog.com.