Wearing My Big Girl Pants…


As I’ve aged, I’ve discovered one thing to be perfectly true about myself. My mind has a tendency to wander. Have you seen that new kitchen gadget that’s supposed to make your life that much easier? Umm…actually, wander is probably too gentle a description to describe how my self-deprecating, and still un-medicated brain cells work. Racing is probably the right word. Yep, that bitch races like she’s part of an AARP NASCAR event on steroids.  No control, and most certainly…NO filters!

But I don’t worry too much about it. First off, I’m too old to care what people think, and secondly, I know people now, and my new best friend just happens to be a bail bondsman, so I pretty much say or do whatever I feel like saying or doing now!  If you’re menopausal, you will completely understand why you should have people like this on the same page as you.

Anyway, the other day I was busy plucking one of those stray eyebrows that seems to always pop up in several places on my chin, and on my other chin, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, my mind took a turn and raced backwards to that time in my life where this kind of grooming was for old broads unheard of.

I was remembering when I was that ‘skinny, perfect, glamo-rama’ girl. Holy crap! That was the greatest time of my life!

Back then, in my almost famous era, I never, ever considered leaving the house unless I was camera ready, just in case the paparazzi got wind that I was out and about!  Those days were spectacular!

I was in my twenties then. I had the world by the balls, and let me tell you…those balls were enormous. I could juggle them and never miss a beat. My boobs were perky and there was only one level to my chin and my butt. I wore crop tops, short shorts, mini skirts and, O.M.G. fuck me high-high-heels!  Of course, this last item may very well be the reason I can longer tippy-toe around today!

Back in that day…

…my thigh’s never rubbed together.

…my underarms never jiggled.

…my ass never undulated.

…my stomach was as flat as a washboard.

…my skin was taut and sprung back like a rubber band.

…and my neck, well, it’s something I usually prefer not to talk about, but back in the day…oh, it was flawless.

I had no skin crevices yet, no barnacles springing up, no wrinkles, no age spots, and no cellulite…nada! I was perfect in every way. (Of course, this is what I tell myself now as I look back on the journey to where I am today.)

I never once feared reflective surfaces during those early years. As a matter of fact, I was actually drawn to them, relentlessly, because back then, that was my job. You know, being beautiful, being on television, being photographed on a daily basis. I spent every waking moment working diligently towards keeping myself in my ‘perfection’ mode! How I looked back then was my moneymaker. I was a model/actress and eventually, after my daughter hit middle school, I had proudly moved into M.I.L.F mode! (If you don’t know what that is, I suggest you Google it!)

But here I am today. All of a sudden, thirty years have flown by. Lot’s of things have changed, relocated or…umm…nope, every thing has pretty much relocated. It’s then I realize that, when I see someone staring at me now, my inner ego springs to attention and I find my hand automatically going to my chin first (to check for gangly strays) and then to my upper lip because I may have left my humble domicile without shaving that small mustache that’s taken up residence between my nose and upper lip. And if that’s all okay, I then check to make sure that the girls are safe and sound in my bra because I’ve caught them trying to sneak out the side of it every so often because I’m so damned cheap now. I still try to wear my old bra’s that contain not one stinking thread of spandex in it, so I completely understand why the girls doth protest on occasion. It keeps life interesting, that’s for sure.

These days, working in and through the fucking fantastic menopause phase, everything has changed about me, including my demeanor. I can clear a room in less than five seconds if my hormone level has taken a dive. My wrinkles laugh lines have become deeper, and I can now actually, truthfully, answer that age-old question of ‘do your boob’s hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow’? And the answer to that my friends is…YES, YES, YES, YES…they do…and I can!

I have also discovered that my body had lost all of its moisture producing abilities, which sometimes proves embarrassing. The other day I had lunch with a friend. When I arrived at the table she reached out to touch my pants and asked me if they were corduroy. I had to admit to her that, NO, they were not, it’s just the sound my vagina makes now when I walk because I sometimes forget to use a vaginal moisturizer. Bitch please! She’s the same age as me. She should know better than to assume the noises my body makes now are not due to costume malfunctions.

As for the elasticity of my skin, well, that’s also gone to hell in a hand basket. Here’s a perfect example of how bad it is. Last week I got out of bed, walked down the hall to the bathroom and when I got there, I realized only one of the girls had come with me. I guess that my husband, at some point during the night, had rolled over on top of the other one, so yeah, the bitch was still snuggled up underneath him somewhere. I had to sit there on the toilet, bracing myself with both hands on the wall just in case he happened to roll over and free her before I peed and got back into bed.

Oh yeah! Menopause is grand. Wearing my big girl pants is mostly fun!

All in all, when my estrogen patch has been safely installed somewhere on my groin, life is pretty damned good. My kids are still alive (only because I discovered my hormone deficiency early on)! My husband still loves me warts and all, and my dog? Well, bless his heart. He still nose butt’s me in the ass after I’ve been gone all day, even though my gastro problems have grown exponentially during this sacred phase of my life!

Yep, I’m a big girl now. Attitude is everything, right?

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Menopausal Moodiness…


…I don’t fucking think so.

Oop’s!

Did I say that out loud? MY BAD!

I think women across the nation, hell, across the world, have been badgered into believing this by our husbands, children, bosses, enemies, and we certainly can’t leave out the pharmaceutical companies, right?

Hell…without us hormonally imbalanced women, imagine what would happen to their profit margin.

Can’t they just face the fact that sometimes we just wake up plain old bitchy on occasion?

The fact is, we have our good days, and we have our bad days!

AND HELLO…

Some of the bad days get handed to us on a fucking silver platter, right?

It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that everyone in your house:

1. leaves every cupboard they open open

2. leaves the fridge door open just a crack so that everything is pre-warmed before cooking

3. leaves their clothes wherever they happen to land because they know the laundry fairy will be by soon (and by-God they know she comes every day)

4. leaves their bed unmade

5. leaves their dirty dishes wherever they’ve recently eaten

6. leaves the milk out after breakfast so that when you finally take a minute for yourself to have that refreshing afternoon cup of tea–it dribbles out in clumps.

ASSHOLES!

It couldn’t possibly be that, when the hubby looks at you with those puppy dog eyes because he’s got a boner that needs some attention, you’ve got to somehow conjure up enough energy just so you can shake your head NO because you still have to finish everything on their mommy/honey-do lists!

It couldn’t possibly be that we have to somehow fit our ‘outside life’ into our ‘inside life’ like it’s no big deal? Like we can do our eight hours at work, then do another eight at home just to catch up?

NO FUCKING PROBLEM, RIGHT?

Some days I have to attend a meeting at my local Bitches Anonymous just to blow off steam so I won’t take the law into my own hands! (These meetings are usually standing room only by the way!) Actually, I hate going to these meetings because they’re such bitches it doesn’t leave me much room to shine!

But I digress…

Every once in a while you have that SPECIAL, MAGICAL day you’re always dreaming of.

You know, the one that:

A. doesn’t include a single hot-flash where you can steam vegetable just by pressing them up against your skin.

B. doesn’t include pee escaping your vaginal canal unexpectedly ruining your God-given right to sit without having to cross your legs to hide the shameful fact that you’ve lost control of your vaginal muscles.

C. Your hair somehow becomes manageable leaving you looking less Medusa like.

…or for once…

D. Clothes that don’t try to take you out at the waist by strangling you or causing that gas bubble to erupt at the most inopportune time.

We live for those days, right girls?

…to be continued!


Feng Shui-ing My Body…


… in order to have a better mental image of myself has been one bloody, difficult task.

Although no people or animals were hurt in the process of this time sensitive endeavor, several mirrors in my home were destroyed.

Three spontaneously combusted, the other two wouldn’t, so I had to take matters into my own hands.

When ‘FENG meets SHUI’ (this happens a lot if you walk too fast) you are in essence, supposed to be in tune with yourself.

Oh! Whatever!

Finding what that tune is when your mind is wandering through the abyss of menopause, is almost impossible!

For those of you who are tone deaf…

CONGRATULATIONS, YOU WON’T HAVE TO BOTHER WITH THIS BULLSHIT!

Tuning in means you’re supposedly supposed to be in a place where you’re in spiritual, emotional, and physical alignment, therefore, the need for reflection should only take place in one’s mind.

(Wish I’d realized this before I destroyed every reflective surface in my house! It’s rather hard to put your makeup on by memory.)

This tuning in crap, I mean-process, will likely put you in a bad mood because, what you’re about to discover is this.

Your brain has become this god-awful emotional dumping ground and you’re gonna have to buck up or shut up!

Spring cleaning is imminent and essential if you’re going to go down this road!

GREAT!

That’s one more chore! Just what we need, right?

In order to get the process going, you’re gonna need a vacuum with turbo power and a tiny hose attachment, organic spray cleaner, and a scrub brush to rid your mind of some of the more clingy shit.

If you’re still raising children, well, good luck with the clingy shit!

Worst case scenario-you’ll need a good mind altering medication prescribed from your, ahem,

‘medical marijuana doctor’.

So, that being said, let’s get down to the nitty gritty!

Many of us mid-lifers have acquired more Shui than Feng. You know what I mean. That’s when your ass has to catch up with the rest of your body whenever you’re moving. Wearing crystals on our body seems like an uncomfortable solution, but deep down, I feel like this could be the solution we’ve been looking for.

I’ve been searching the ends of the earth trying to find ‘said crystals’ that are flat and unobtrusive, because the last thing we need is more protrusions, right?

I’ve yet to be successful because so far, the ones I have found and tried to utilize, have these sharp little edges that make me itch. If you’re a Spanx lover, well, the annoying factor doubles.

That’s not the only problem either!

Because I’m more the fitted clothing kind of gal, these ‘said crystals’ also cause some pretty wacky protrusions that become very obvious under your clothing. If positioned incorrectly, you’ll have lumps and bumps (the exact opposite of what you’re trying to go for) in places that will make people give you odd glances.

I’ve tried putting them in obvious places in order to draw attention away from places I don’t want people gawking at, but this only irritated ‘thing one‘ and ‘thing two‘.

Maybe now that it’s winter, you know, sweater weather, this will finally work in my favor!

The Hubby’s a little freaked by this whole idea.

After running his hand down my back towards my butt the other day, he asked me why I was going to such extreme’s with this insanity?

“Honey, I’m trying to clean up my temple! I’m trying to draw good things to all parts of my body,” I say.

“I’ve got a good thing for your body right here in my pocket,” he says, hoping as always, that I’ll jump at the opportunity to allow him to help me in my quest for peace.

My idea of ‘having peace‘ is far different from his idea of ‘having a piece‘.

“Look. I need to figure out me Ba-Gua, my energy map,” I tell him. “I need to figure out how I can use my body to increase my income potential.”

Dead silence!

I look at him and he’s smiling.

“If you put all your energy into MY Ba-Gua for five minutes, I think I’ve got some cash in my wallet,” he says.

MEN!

At first, I was insulted by hiscash for gash’ comment, but the more I thought about it, I realized he might have a point.

The ‘law of feng shui’ says that to attract more prosperity into your life, you should include Wood and Water. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall one of my daughter’s old boyfriends who, when horny, used to tell her, I got wood! He’d see a cool car and he’d say, ‘man that gives me wood’.

I’d already done my research. I knew my personal element was fire.

Hmmmm….

Fire requires a lot of wood…

Interesting!

Maybe hubby’s not such a pig after all. Maybe he’s been doing his own research. Maybe he’s been looking through my notes. Maybe, just maybe, he’s about to get lucky. This could become one of those rare ‘win-win’ situations.

“Honey?” I say, looking him square in the eye.

“Yes?” he says.

I can still hear the tiniest amount of hope in his voice.

“Just how much cash do you have in your wallet?”

Dry Skin Versus Oily Skin…


…is another thing we menopausal women have to deal with.

I for one am of the dry skin group. Just my luck, right?

I’ve become the fucking Sahara Desert inside and out.

If I manage to drool at night, I don’t get upset. No Way!

I become elated, overjoyed, wrought with happiness, because that means my body went into overdrive during the night just to produce that one little droplet of moisture. It’s a sign from God that there’s still hope that one day my moisture will return!

If I spit when I talk, I thank God!

I scream halle-fuckin-lulia at the top of my lungs because it’s possibly going to be one of those glorious days where my tongue’s not stuck to the roof of my mouth or the back of my teeth.

Yep! I’m like a long hot summer day. Dry with no chance of rain!

When hubby get’s that look in his eye, you know, where he’s staring at my vagina, I have to remind him that:

“Just because something looks like an oasis–it doesn’t always mean it is an oasis!”

A friend of mine always complains about how oily her skin has gotten since she hit menopause.

If that were me, and that oil made its way to my

vagina, I’d get down on my fucking knees and

praise God!

This of course is all good news for the pharmacutical companies though. Now they can expand their profit’s by developing new products like ‘gina juice‘!

There’s already a plethora of new products out there for those of us who are atrophying, drying up like prunes as we venture through this wonderful phase we loving call menopause.

I tried one of those new ‘HOT lubricants’ a few weeks back. Let me tell you!

I can now officially say that I smoke after sex.

…to be continued!

Hot sex…


…is something we all strive for. Who on earth wouldn’t? There’s absolutely nothing else like being immersed in someone else’s skin.

You know what I’m talking about. First you flirt, or ogle if that’s your style. Then you feel that little tingle start somewhere deep inside. Your toes start to curl up,  and then suddenly your body’s on fire. You’re entire being is pulsating like a giant time bomb. The anticipation of a good orgasm keeps you in the moment. You start the countdown 10, 9, 8…

You’re just about there when all of a sudden your mind wanders and you wonder whether or not you switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer…

Crap!

Hot sex to me is when I accidentally burn my finger cooking dinner and I start hopping around the kitchen screaming ‘fuck me, fuck me’ while I dash to the sink to run cold water over it.

Of course this could actually lead to hot sex because if hubby’s in the house and he here’s this gut wrenching scream, the next thing you know I hear him sprinting through the house to get to me. I’ve seen him actually breaks a sweat after maneuvering the furniture in the living room, running hurdle over the dining room chairs, where upon entering the kitchen I can see he’s already got his pants undone, and yep, there it is, the boner. Unfortunately, there are just some fuck me’s that cannot be resolved with anything short of cold water.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I am uber-grateful that after more than thirty-one years of marriage he still wants to jump my bones! He’s forever grabbing my ass at the most unpredictable times, and while this is all well and good, I often times wonder whether this is a sex thing or is he just checking to see if I’ve been working out or not.

Sometimes he’ll rub my shoulders only to let his hand wander down the front of my shirt. Sometimes I stop him and sometimes I don’t, it all depends on whether or not those little stray nipple hairs have been removed or not. It is not cool to have more hair on your chest than your husband. But all in all–it’s all good!

Yes, in my world, hot sex is something that happens when the air conditioner is not working. Oh there’s plenty of steam and sweat but I can’t actually say it’s caused by body movement.

There have been times when we’re engaged in ‘you know’ and I get caught up listening to my spine cracking every time I move. Yes, at my age, it seems like all my bones are a little cranky when put to the test. My hip bones doth protest on occasion too and I wonder if I’ll be stuck in that god awful position forever. I do not want to walk around looking like I just got off a horse after a day of riding bronco bulls.

I got an e-mail in my in-box the other day. You know the kind. The ones that randomly show up and peak your curiosity. Well I clicked on the link and low and behold I got schooled on how long a man can have an erection. Forty-eight to seventy-two hours is what they claim.

WTF?

Are there really men out there willing to walk around like that for two or three days in a row? Is this stuff safe? Does it come with a side order of nitro glycerin for your heart? I’ve seen all those televised ads for Cialis and Viagra and they always have a warning about “if you have an erection longer than four hours” you should contact your doctor. With this product if your doctor is not female and horny, what’s the point of seeing her?

What makes their ad particularly appealing to many consumers out there is that you can get absolutely shit-faced drunk and this stuff, ‘ViagPURE’, will still have the desired effect, and better yet it claims it can save a failing marriage and can make your sperm shoot farther and with more precision than an arrow leaving a spear gun.

Hellooooo!   Is the distance sperm can shoot something we give a lot of thought to? Mmmmmmmm! I guess I may have to ponder on whether there are actually any benefits to this.

Now unless you’re a famous golfer claiming ‘hole in ones all the time I don’t see the point. Or maybe, just once,  for two or three days I would ‘get’ the point and then wonder what’s the point.

It’s already bad enough that I don’t get enough sleep. I can’t imagine staying up for that many hours in a row just to wreak the benefits of this man enhancer, nor would I want to.

And what about the kids? Don’t you think they’d wonder where we were for those three days even though we were home the whole time? And how would we explain the bags under our eyes and the fact that once we emerged from wherever we’d hidden away that we could no longer move? That we actually might need medical intervention.

I don’t know, call me old-fashioned. I like a good romp in the hay but I don’t think my gina would be as acceptable to participating in this kind of marathon sex any more. Of course this would all boil down to whether I gave in to one of those middle of the night commercial I told you about earlier. You know…for VD–vaginal dryness. Maybe this is where that old adage comes in–the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Now I’ve known a few men during my lifetime who proclaim they can go at it all night, but seventy-two hours under the best of circumstances seems, well, a little excessive to me–for anything.

I can’t help thinking that with all the blood running down there to keep that sinking ship alive, what the hell is keeping the rest of the boat floating? Doesn’t the rest of the body need some of that blood? But then again, women have always said that a man thinks with his dick so maybe the brain IS getting exactly all the blood it needs. I don’t know, call me crazy.

I say forget about a drug that keeps it up like the energizer bunny and instead just get one of those miniature life alert bracelets and attach it directly to the penis. You let your imagination run wild until a situation ‘arises’, the life alert goes off, and whammo.

“Oh honey….did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s beeping.”

“Oh…I thought that was the oven timer.”

“No, it’s me, hurry up, turn off the oven. We’ve got about two minutes.”

“But it’s a souffle, it’ll deflate without the heat.”

“Yeah, well…so will this.”

Maybe I’m just old. I do not want to have sex for seventy-two hours in a row, nor do my hip bones.

Let’s be real hear.

If you have the ability to stay awake for several days in a row you’re probably still in your twenties and don’t need this shit anyway. If you’re an alcoholic in a failing marriage, hello, it’s probably not lack of sex that’s causing your marriage to fail.

Suppleness is…


…a major concern for women of every age. Many of us who’ve passed the hormone marker, as in we have none any more, are constantly searching for the perfect combination of serum’s that will lift, soften, and moisturize our skin.

We’re constantly in pursuit of these miracle fluids or creams that can reduce those wretched wrinkles we lovingly refer to as smile lines that form around our eyes. We want something that will rid us of those hideous brown spots that seem to manifest themselves out of nowhere. We want something that will reduce the swelling and dark circles that appear underneath our eyes while we’re sleeping. You know the ones I’m talking about–the ones that make it seem as though you’ve recently been involved in some sort of brawl. We want something that will eliminate those spidery veins that leave parts of our body looking like road maps. We want, we want, we want!

It’s an endless quest. It’s expensive and time-consuming trying to track down these products that promise the fountain of youth but we do it anyway.

No big deal right?  Vanity know’s no boundaries I guess.

But here’s my new dilemma.

Because I’m a major insomniac I watch television in the middle of the night when my writer’s mind experiences what is known as writer’s block. You can pretty much be guaranteed that most of what’s on during these early morning hours are infomercials.

What’s amazing and particularly cool about that is that it makes me realize I’m not alone, I’m not the only woman who rises at these ungodly hours because most of these adverts pertain to women’s problem.

I’ve witnessed women losing 20 pounds of belly fat in ten days, women growing a full head of hair back in less than a month, women losing weight by popping a pill a day without having to change their diet, women getting a face lift in under ten minutes, and eewwww, women getting their butt-hole bleached for some God awful reason. The list goes on and on.

The exercise infomercials that really irk me are those freaking cardio routine ones. You know the ones. You can’t keep up, you trip over your own feet, and you have to take a five-minute break between every rep because your lungs no longer have the capacity to suck air in at that kind of speed.

What’s really a pisser is that usually there’s not one single female in the video who needs to lose one single stinking pound. Most of these bitches…I mean girls… are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. They already have protruding rib cages, and that perfect little line that runs down their perfectly concave belly defining their tight little abs. Their hair remains perfectly in place. Their makeup does not run. Their perfect teeth glow like neon chicklets as their highly glossed pink surgically altered gargantuan lips part in smile. Their breasts, which are usually bursting out the top of their little skin-tight half-shirts, remain pert and immovable, and not one single ass cheek bounces around.

Never ever do they show some fat-ass woman wearing baggy ass clothes, sweating her fat ass off while gasping for air as they try to keep up the pace. What the hell is up with that?

Where is the reality here?

Okay, so I have to admit that once in a while I’ll bite the bullet and work out with them to make the time pass quicker. I’ll grab my resistance ropes or my little weights and follow along. I’ll work hard enough to get to the burn they talk about and I’ll continue until the fail point but then I stop because my heart is sending out that message ‘you stop or I’ll stop’.  At that point all I want to do is bitch slap the smile off their faces.

Oh yeah, I’ve been sucked in many times. I’ve picked up the phone within that golden ‘ten minute time limit’ to get the deal on their program or pill or cookie or whatever. I now own more exercise equipment than most gyms, most of which can be found hidden away in my 15 year old man-childs room. He loves that I like these infomercials.

Yes, I am constantly being barraged in the middle of the night with a plethora of images and information on how I should be taking care of my body.

With so many things to already worry about in order to have a somewhat reasonable appearance,  the last thing I ever thought I’d have to worry about is VD.

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

At my age I’m apparently supposed to be worried about this. From what I understand now, almost forty percent of women my age suffer from this affliction.

‘That’s just fucking great’ I’m thinking to myself as I watch this stupid commercial that’s somehow slipped under the FCC’s critical eye . Like I don’t have other things to worry about, now I have to worry about that little sucker too!

What a bitch!

So there I am at three in the morning wondering whether my vagina is worn out after fifty some years of workin’ it.

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

The thought of wrinkles and whatnot down there sends a shiver right through me. Should I go get this stuff and moisturize just in case, or should I just let sleeping dogs lie?

If you think about it a vagina get’s put through its paces over the years.

A good night of sex is like sending your ‘gina’ to the gym. Sometimes the work out’s slow and steady and sometimes it’s fat- burning cardio speed. Either way I’ve always considered this a good thing.

Aside from the good exercise as stated above our poor old vagina’s have to endure years of menstruation, which is both a blessing and a curse. Then, when we decide to have babies, we pray that it’ll play along when it’s time to give birth because it’s got to stretch itself far beyond what it signed of for as that little pink bundle slides out into the world. That’s a work out like no other and all we can do afterwards is pray that it’ll use common sense and somehow return to its normal size.

Seeing this commercial brought to mind a question my daughter asked me several years ago.

“Have you ever queef’d during sex?” she asked.

That was the first time I’d ever heard that word.

“Of course I have”, I replied without blinking an eye.

My assumption was that it was when some  sort of epiphany that happened during sex.

She laughed her ass of then went back to her room at which point I hightailed it into my office to look it up in the dictionary.

“Queef: (verb)…a vaginal fart during coitus.

No wonder she laughed. I’d definitely experienced that once or twice but I’d never given it a name.

All this time I’d thought it was just my vagina trying to catch its breath. My bad!

I digress.

Maybe those ‘queef’s’ were a sign of some sort. Maybe that’s the signal that you’re headed towards a vagina that will soon be reminicent of the Sahara Desert. One that is awaiting the presentation of an oasis in the form of vaginal moisturizer.

Based on its location it’s not easily accessible to your own eyes. The thought of asking the hubby about what he see’s down there is completely out of the question. This is in line with ‘if you don’t draw attention to a problem people won’t notice it’.

I think this is a gimme here!

I guess all I have to do now is decide which way to go here. Will I work under the premise that  ‘knowledge is power’ or ‘ignorance is bliss’ on this issue.