Menopausal Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Okay, I'll admit that I'm tired of being the dinosaur in the family.  I was the last to learn how to use a DVD, the last to learn how to use a cell phone, and the last to learn how to use a computer.  I finally brushed the cobwebs out of my brain and took a computer class geared for geriatric-aged people.  For months I tinkered around on the computer and discovered how much I liked watching weird videos on YouTube, reading blog sites and emailing friends who had given up such relics as stationery, ink pens and postage stamps eons ago.  My kids also set up a Facebook account for me but I rarely looked at it.  In fact, I thought it was kind of silly spending all that time chatting away with people I hadn't seen since Jimmy Carter was in the oval office.  At the time I was also sharing the clunky, old , family computer with three other people in the house, so it seemed pointless to get into a juicy conversation with an old friend online when my kids were hovering nearby, waiting their turn to neglect their homework in favor of socializing on Facebook.
     Life changed the day my husband surprised me with my very own computer for Christmas!  It was the Holy Grail of communication for me, and every time I lifted the lid on my laptop, I swear I could hear the Hallelujah Chorus when the keyboard lit up.  Suddenly I couldn't get enough of it---I was zipping through videos, blogs, emails and googling stupid stuff like kangaroos trained to play Ping-Pong in Australia.  It was a heady experience, all that power at my finger tips---with one click I had access to THE SECRETS OF THE UNIVERSE...or at least a great recipe for low fat meatloaf.
     And then one day I let my fingers do the walking through Facebook, and I discovered this whole, new neighborhood filled with hundreds of people who at one time or another were important in my life.  I badgered my kids daily to help me set up my profile, upload nice (i.e. flattering) pictures and to locate people I haven't seen since we marched out of the high school auditorium with diplomas in our hands.
     That's when the real fun started---friend requests were sent and received like rapid gunfire over the internet.  I was sending friend requests to EVERYONE...including people I hadn't seen since nursery school.  "Hey, remember me?  We shared a mat together during nap time in Mr. Jim's class..."
     Even more fun was checking up on the Facebook status of each of my children, and leaving silly comments on their walls.  One son threatened to "unfriend" me for reminding him on his Facebook wall to brush his teeth before going to bed.  I kept forgetting that my comments were like a neon sign on his wall for the entire teenage population to see.
     I had to adapt to computer lingo before I could join the Facebook community.  Stuff like LOL, BRB, LMAO, DK, BFF, TMI, UR2, TXT, TTYL, and ROFLMAO.  Pretty soon my fingers were flying over the keyboard so fast, I was making up my own abbreviations:

     Bking choc pi w/ntz 2 nte 4U. RU2 cmg ovr 4 dnr?  (Baking chocolate pie with nuts tonight for you.  Are you two coming over for dinner?)

     Pretty soon I started talking in abbreviations as well, and both my husband and kids looked at me as if I'd sprouted a third eye because of my garbled lingo:  "pza 2nte 4 dnr.  I'll BRB from Dr. off. TTYL."
     At this point my kids were nauseated by my Facebook enthusiasm.  They never expected this old fossil to become a Facebook aficionado.  I was obsessed with it---not only could I catch up with old friends, I could share recipes with them, videos, music, photos of the grandchildren and get good advice from dozens of people on how to stop my dog from pooping on the living room carpet.  I could change my status daily or even hourly, and there was always someone out there reading it, ready to send me a smile or a sympathetic ear to my daily grumblings.  My husband just shook his head and asked, "Why do you need to know who's cheating on their diet right at this very moment with a strawberry and cream frappucino from Starbucks, or who's secretly sucking down vodka martinis in a Spiderman thermos at their kid's soccer game?  Why do you even care?"
     I couldn't explain to him that it was all just part of being involved in the Facebook community.
     Over time I have learned that there are certain, unwritten rules that need to be adhered to while using Facebook.  For instance:

     #1.  You've heard of drunk texting?  Drunk Facebooking is worse.  DO NOT get lubed up on cheap beer or wine and stalk old boyfriends/girlfriends or write depressing messages on your wall about feeling unloved or under-appreciated.

     #2.  If you've got food poisoning or the flu, please refrain from sharing your symptoms, in detail, in your day's status.  Some of us already have weak stomachs.

     #3.  Leave negative comments to yourself.  If your best friend posts a picture of herself in a new pair of jeans, don't ask her if it's too late to get her money back.

     #4.  Do not discuss politics on Facebook.  Pretty soon forty people will be arguing on your wall over who would make a better president/senator/governor.  Eventually they'll all agree that Pee wee Herman should be a write-in candidate.

     #5.  If several of your Facebook friends are dieting, do not post pictures of the calorie-laden, mouth-watering meal you just consumed with a Rachel Ray description of every bite you took.

     #6.  This is the most important one of all.  DO NOT TAG YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY MEMBERS IN UNFLATTERING PICTURES!!!  To me, this is the worst offense on Facebook.  It's hard enough to be a middle-aged person trying to look ten years younger and trying to post a flattering picture of yourself on Facebook.  After all, EVERYONE sees these photos---old lovers, ex spouses, high school rivals, distant cousins, the family dog...you've got to look NICE in these pictures!
     When you finally think you've got the best pictures of yourself posted on Facebook (you know, the ones with your stomach sucked in, chest out, chin up, hair perfectly coiffed), something terrible is bound to happen that will shatter that image of perfection on the computer screen.  Your kids (or a not-so-nice friend, in-law, etc.) will take great delight in posting a horrendous picture of you from last Summer's backyard barbecue---the one where you're mid-bite into a juicy burger and there's mayonnaise all over your face.  Or that picture taken last Christmas that the kids think is so hilarious because they caught you on camera at 3:00 a.m. putting presents under the tree.  No makeup, wild hair, ratty, old pajamas and looking very much like a rabid possum.  They shamelessly tag you in these photos on Facebook.
     The definition of blackmail?  When your kids post these God-awful pictures while you're out of town (and miles from any WiFi spots) or schlepping around Walmart, and you have NO IDEA that the entire universe has already viewed the REAL YOU in living color.  This can scar you for life, and you'll end up shouting in your sleep, "DELETE! DELETE!"
     The ultimate revenge in this case is to return the favor and post on Facebook old photos of these same people, whether it's an old high school friend who once sported red satin pants, a sequin tube top and a poufy 1980's hairdo while engaged in a hotdog eating contest, or one of your kids (prior to puberty) when they went through that awkward, chubby, mouth-full-of-braces look in a bathing suit two sizes too small.  Post these embarrassing old photos on Facebook, sit back and chuckle while the comments roll in on your wall.
     Who says you can't teach an old dinosaur new tricks? LOL!

     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?!?