Menopausal Mother

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

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

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

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

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

WHY I DON'T...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     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!!!!