I can always tell when my body is going to start screwing around with me. I'll be at my desk, diligently working, and all of a sudden, the Fifty-Something Female Caribbean Flush (FSFCF) erupts on my chest, climbs up to my neck and then to my face. My hair becomes damp. My bra feels wet. And then it's gone. This is my warning: Brace yourself, honey. Here comes the ravenous appetite, hot flashes, mood swings, and horrible sleep patterns once again.
I can go months without these feelings. Months where I congratulate myself that the worst is over. And then - surprise! The FSFCF appears.
I know I should be grateful for everything in my life. That's what the Bible says somewhere. But come on! Isn't menstrual cramping, fatigue, childbirth, having to wear a bra, and dealing with chin hairs enough torture for one lifetime? We have to deal with the end of the fertile period in our lives too, by the FSFCF?
Excuse my whining. I just experienced a hot flash that had me ripping my bathrobe off and running out to the back patio to cool off.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Menopause is.....
.....having zits and wrinkles on the same face.
.....crying at State Farm commercials.
.....almost missing your monthly periods. I said almost!
.....getting pissed off at your deodorant.
.....anticipating the second you can take your bra off and get comfortable.
.....missing having a waistline.
.....feeling like the only thing that will make you smile is smacking a complete stranger or having a Malibu Bay Breeze or six.
.....feeling disdainful when you see skinny women modeling plus-size clothing.
.....looking at your high school prom pictures and thinking, "Honey, you have alot to learn."
.....realizing that your childbearing years are officially over and the thought actually bothers you a little. For a fleeting second. Till you come to your senses.
.....embracing new people, new ideas and new underwear with the same enthusiasm.
.....refusing a dinner date with your friends because you have to pluck your chin hairs first.
.....forgetting key moments in your life, like your wedding.
.....never having to say, "Damn, I'm out of tampons" again.
.....having to write everything down because your memory is as non-existent as your waistline.
.....paying over $1000 a year at the hairdressers for three good hair days.
.....seeing gray hairs and not worrying about it.
.....wearing reading glasses.
.....looking at your hands and wondering when they started looking like your mother's.
.....actually liking your own children.
.....taking a bite out of life. And anything else you feel like.
.....crying at State Farm commercials.
.....almost missing your monthly periods. I said almost!
.....getting pissed off at your deodorant.
.....anticipating the second you can take your bra off and get comfortable.
.....missing having a waistline.
.....feeling like the only thing that will make you smile is smacking a complete stranger or having a Malibu Bay Breeze or six.
.....feeling disdainful when you see skinny women modeling plus-size clothing.
.....looking at your high school prom pictures and thinking, "Honey, you have alot to learn."
.....realizing that your childbearing years are officially over and the thought actually bothers you a little. For a fleeting second. Till you come to your senses.
.....embracing new people, new ideas and new underwear with the same enthusiasm.
.....refusing a dinner date with your friends because you have to pluck your chin hairs first.
.....forgetting key moments in your life, like your wedding.
.....never having to say, "Damn, I'm out of tampons" again.
.....having to write everything down because your memory is as non-existent as your waistline.
.....paying over $1000 a year at the hairdressers for three good hair days.
.....seeing gray hairs and not worrying about it.
.....wearing reading glasses.
.....looking at your hands and wondering when they started looking like your mother's.
.....actually liking your own children.
.....taking a bite out of life. And anything else you feel like.
The Facebook Circle
Today I went to a memorial service for a classmate from high school. I hadn't seen this classmate probably since June 1, 1975, the day we graduated. But thanks to Facebook, I reconnected with her last year.
Facebook has been the technology tool that has reunited many of us from that graduating class. Women with whom I walked the halls of Notre Dame from 1971 - 1975, women who were not a part of the gaggle of girls that I regularly hung with back then, have become the Circle of Friends. Our common bond is that our journey to adulthood started in the same place and shaped who we are now. That, and we all have computers with a Facebook account!
We are a diverse group. Among us we have a court reporter, a couple teachers, a CPA, a homemaker or two, a columnist, a corporate VP, a HS guidance department head. Several of us are breast cancer survivors. Some have lost parents. All have lost a classmate. We live in NJ, PA, DE, Utah, Florida, Virginia, and other places. Some are married, some are divorced, some are single, some have significant others. Some have at least one kid. We all bear a resemblance to the girls we were 35 years ago but the lines on our faces and the gray in our hair attest to lives filled with work, family, and challenges won and lost. We are the Circle of Friends, true sisters of the heart. We give support better than any expensive bra. And that's how we roll.
Godspeed, Linda, the one who remains in the middle of the Circle.
Facebook has been the technology tool that has reunited many of us from that graduating class. Women with whom I walked the halls of Notre Dame from 1971 - 1975, women who were not a part of the gaggle of girls that I regularly hung with back then, have become the Circle of Friends. Our common bond is that our journey to adulthood started in the same place and shaped who we are now. That, and we all have computers with a Facebook account!
We are a diverse group. Among us we have a court reporter, a couple teachers, a CPA, a homemaker or two, a columnist, a corporate VP, a HS guidance department head. Several of us are breast cancer survivors. Some have lost parents. All have lost a classmate. We live in NJ, PA, DE, Utah, Florida, Virginia, and other places. Some are married, some are divorced, some are single, some have significant others. Some have at least one kid. We all bear a resemblance to the girls we were 35 years ago but the lines on our faces and the gray in our hair attest to lives filled with work, family, and challenges won and lost. We are the Circle of Friends, true sisters of the heart. We give support better than any expensive bra. And that's how we roll.
Godspeed, Linda, the one who remains in the middle of the Circle.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Remember the Innocent
Especially in this time of TOO MUCH (too much food, too many gifts, too much company, too many ornaments, etc.), we have a responsibilty to protect and care for the innocent beings in our world. In keeping with that thought, our local animal shelter is in dire need of items to help care for the homeless animals. Please, if you are interested in donating an item, leave a comment on this blog and we'll work it out. God bless you! And Happy Thanksgiving.
1. Wet or dry cat and dog food
2. Cat Toys (no dog toys)
3. Cat Bedding
4. Old Towels, sheets, blankets, pillows
5. Shelves
6. Cat and Dog Treats
7. Dog Leashes
8. Donations to spay and neuter
9. Vinyl flooring for cat cages
10. Can openers
11. Scoops
12. Litter box scoops
13. Stainless steel or ceramic dishes
14. Cat dishes
15. Catnip
16. Tuna fish or hot dogs
17. Cat litter
18. Plastic or metal forks, spoons, and knives
19. Cat Furniture
20. Scratching posts
21. Used TVs
22. Used radios
23. Anything else you can't use
24. Volunteers
1. Wet or dry cat and dog food
2. Cat Toys (no dog toys)
3. Cat Bedding
4. Old Towels, sheets, blankets, pillows
5. Shelves
6. Cat and Dog Treats
7. Dog Leashes
8. Donations to spay and neuter
9. Vinyl flooring for cat cages
10. Can openers
11. Scoops
12. Litter box scoops
13. Stainless steel or ceramic dishes
14. Cat dishes
15. Catnip
16. Tuna fish or hot dogs
17. Cat litter
18. Plastic or metal forks, spoons, and knives
19. Cat Furniture
20. Scratching posts
21. Used TVs
22. Used radios
23. Anything else you can't use
24. Volunteers
Monday, October 26, 2009
Dead Bird Causes Public Breakdown
So, I go to a local convenience store to get a cup of coffee to bring to the office. While standing in line to pay, the cashier yells that there is a little bird that flew into the window and is now lying in front of the door twitching. A guy moves it with his foot to get it out of the way.
I leave with my coffee and I see the bird. He is still alive but unable to move. I get my glasses case and with the help of a nice guy named Jim, move him to a non-traffic area. We stand there and watch the poor bird struggle, knowing that he will die soon. So I begin to sob. Loudly. People going in and out of the store are looking at me with alarm. Jim counsels me, telling me not to worry and that this is nature. I agreed, thanked him and left, still sobbing.
I am still sickened by this and want to go back and rescue this bird, knowing full well that I can't. So that's how my Monday started.
I leave with my coffee and I see the bird. He is still alive but unable to move. I get my glasses case and with the help of a nice guy named Jim, move him to a non-traffic area. We stand there and watch the poor bird struggle, knowing that he will die soon. So I begin to sob. Loudly. People going in and out of the store are looking at me with alarm. Jim counsels me, telling me not to worry and that this is nature. I agreed, thanked him and left, still sobbing.
I am still sickened by this and want to go back and rescue this bird, knowing full well that I can't. So that's how my Monday started.
Monday, September 14, 2009
MTV VMAs
It's the "R" word again. Racism. But wait...is it racism if a black man makes a statement, during a white girl's acceptance speech, that a black woman's work was the "best in the world"? Or would it be racism if a white guy interrupted a black girl to tell the audience about a white woman's video? Seems to me that the people who scream the "R" word are the most racist. Why is it only racism when it suits people? Why is racism a continued excuse?
One day we'll get it right. Till then, kudos to Beyonce' for her class, Taylor for her grace, Russell for his tactful humor, and shame on Kanye.
One day we'll get it right. Till then, kudos to Beyonce' for her class, Taylor for her grace, Russell for his tactful humor, and shame on Kanye.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Turn of the Wheel
Teaching your sixteen year old child to drive is an enlightening and life-altering event. I had the honor of teaching both of our sons to drive, because, quite simply, my husband didn’t have the guts. Let me rectify that statement. He did take the eldest out driving once. As I heard from my son George later, my husband had his left hand on the emergency brake and his right hand clutched on the door handle during the entire trip. He sucked in so much air during the ride that he had hiccups for two hours afterwards. It took a little longer for the nausea to disappear.
My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.
The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.
The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.
We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.
He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.
Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.
I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.
So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”
Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.
My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.
The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.
The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.
We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.
He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.
Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.
I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.
So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”
Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.
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