Menopausal Mother

     What the heck is up with middle age acne?  I don't eat mountains of chocolate or greasy food to stimulate pimple production (even if that is a myth), so why do I get the connect-a-dot cluster of red bumps on my face every couple of months?  Preparation for a phantom period? There is no more period, so there should be no more blemishes.  Yet there they are, popping up overnight like groundhogs peeking up out of their holes to predict another six weeks of winter.
     I never had much acne as a teenager, so maybe this is payback time.  Although I do remember attending some sort of college sorority dance looking like Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer.  No amount of foundation or powder could cover up that Bozo The Clown nose.
     Pimples are often stressed-induced, but in my case, they crop up when I'm at my happiest, or, say, ten minutes before I'm about to meet with someone I haven't seen in ten years, or I'm about to pose for the yearly family holiday photo. I can just hear some of my relatives now:

    "Geez, what the heck is that thing on her forehead? Looks like a third eye!"

     "The tip of her nose sure is red---must be nipping at the liquor again!"

     Why haven't they invented menopausal pimple prevention cream?  Probably because there would be too many side effects, such as:

     Permanent rosacea (Looking like an adult with chicken pox)

     Cankles

     Increased cellulite

     A third spare tire around the middle (lookin' like the Michelin Man)

     Inflamed gobbler

     Bat wing fat

     Elephant earlobes

     Unabrow

     A sixth toe on the left foot

     Why are we cursed with blemishes when we've already suffered through our teenage angst years?  The difference is that these are faux zits.  You're not getting your period but you're going to go through all the symptoms of one, like bloating and crying over the Publix holiday commercials---or anything else sentimental.  It makes me want to adopt a puppy or feed a child in Guyana.

     I've tried dermabrasion and chemical peels that leave my face looking like a freshly steamed lobster.  I've heard that some women go so far as to rub cat litter and cream on their faces for a smooth complexion. I cleanse and moisturize, cleanse and moisturize and most days my skin looks pretty darn good.  But then there are those mornings I wake up with one pimple that somehow morphs into a riotous gang of color by the end of the evening.  At this rate I'm afraid I'll still be ordering Proactive from my granny chair at the old folk's home...along with a case load of Metamucil.  Where's the kitty litter facial scrub when I need it? Meow!

     I don't like the mornings I wake up feeling like Rip Van Winkle, a time when the world has passed me by and I've suddenly gone out of style. Thirty years gone by in the blink of an eye! It makes me feel older than dirt. The good news is that I'm not the only one going through it.
     The other day I complained to my mother that my right hip aches after my morning walk. "Bursitis!" she says, with a knowing grin. The kind of stuff that happens to OLD people. When I complain about the stiffness that occurs in my fingers late at night, she says, "Arthritis!", and recommends some medications. If you really want a reminder of how old you are, go with your kids to a party that has a group of mixed ages attending. Try clearing the dance floor with those spiffy dance moves you executed so well back in the 1980's. You'll learn real quick how old school you really are.
     Thinking on this, I've compiled a list of telltale signs that it's time to join AARP and take advantage of all the senior discounts it offers. If any of the following apply to you, you probably belong to the Jurassic era:

The calendar that was once filled with social engagements now has doctor appointments penciled in.

You're addicted to HGTV and the Food Network.

Your medicine cabinet looks like a Walgreens pharmacy.

Sunburns are out, hot flashes are in.

You need to apply deodorant more than once a day.

Spanx are in, thongs are out.

Naps are the highlight of your day.

It takes you 30 minutes to get out the door because you can't find your keys. Once you do, you 're still late because you keep checking the front door to make sure you locked it. Alzheimer's is not far away.

You used to stand in line for tickets to Guns N' Roses. Now you stand in line for a flu shot.

You're still using a VCR to record your favorite shows.

The music playing in elevators and in the background at the dentist's office is the same stuff you used to dance to in the 70's and 80's.

Hangovers hang on longer than one day.

You still use a phone book to look up phone numbers.

Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills and Viagra are part of your daily food group.


You know what triglycerides are and you monitor them carefully.

You need your contacts in to find your glasses and you need your glasses on to clean your contacts.

Everything in your wardrobe has adjustable waistbands.

You need Starbucks to keep you awake during the day and Lunesta to fall asleep at night.

You look in the mirror and realize you are JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


MOM'S GEORGIA PECAN PIE

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

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



MOM'S SWEET POTATO CASSEROLE

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

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

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

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

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