Day 191, November 30

"I don't know about you, but I think we'd have fewer 'bad hair days,' if we weren't trying to wear so any hats!"--Julie Sutton

Don't you love this?  I immediately identified with Ms. Sutton's sentiment.  How many hats have you worn over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime?

Somewhere in the thousands, probably.

For me, it's been the usual chapeaux:  wife and mother, daughter and sister, friend, cousin, aunt, writer, member of the church, volunteer in the community, visiting teacher, primary teacher, Relief Society secretary, RS visiting teacher coordinator, and a myriad of others.  No wonder my hair is such a mess!

And often, we're wearing multiple hats at the same time.   For women cannot compartmentalize their lives and say, "I'll be a mother on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a wife on Mondays and Wednesdays, a church member on Sundays and Fridays, and Saturday will have to cover eveyrthing else."  No.  We don't have thath luxury.  We wear our hats, however lopsided and ill-fitting they may be every day.

Gem for the day:  wear a Red Hat with a purple feather.  You'll feel better for it.

Day 190, November 29

Have you ever wanted to go to a spa?  To be pampered and treated like the queen that you know you are?  I have.  And then I learned a bit more about what they do to you at a spa.  Here are some highlights:

- Be beaten with seaweed strands
- Have a coffee colonic shot up your business
- Have your fat measured and calibrated
- Work out all day then given a bit of that same seaweed (see number 1) for dinner

No, thank you. 

Gem for the day:  if I want people to be mean to me, I can stay home--for free.

Day 189, November 28

The Wretch frequently refers to me as "mildly eccentric."  I don't mind.  I figure there's worse things I can be.   I could be mean or nasty or greedy or crazy.  Compared to them, mildly eccentric seems pretty darn good.

And if I'm occasionally any of the above, I chalk it up to menopause, which I'm seeing as a get-out-jail-free card for any number of sins, minor crimes, and misdemeanors.  In fact, come to think about it, I'm doing all right.  Just because I've been known to send the wrong text to the wrong person (this can be embarrassing when I think I'm writing to The Wretch and it turns out that I've texted something naughty to our bishop), just because I've been known to back into the garage door when it's closed, just because I've been known to burn water, that doesn't mean I'm losing it.  Those are merely signs of a creative and active mind.

Gem for the day:  embrace your inner weirdness.  (I know--you thought I was going to say something different, didn't you?)

Day 188, November 27

A week or so ago, I wrote about the possibility of becoming a survivalist.  Then I had to retract and admit that perhaps survivalism wasn't for me.  However, I have had more thoughts of how to make it work for me on my own terms.  Of course, since I'm Mormon, I had to make the whole survival thing fit within the parameters of Mormonism.  And so I came up with the MMW/Survivalist food/emergency storage concept.

Items for an MMW to have in storage:

A battery operated fan (hot flashes can hit anytime, anywhere)
A portable generator (to power the AC when a fan doesn't cut it)
A gross of Hershey's syrup
A taser (for when The Wretch gets out of hand)
A year's supply of Prozac

Feel free to add to this list.

Gem for the day:  make survivalism work on your terms.  An MMW can never be too prepared.

Day 187, November 26

I'll let you in on a dirty little secret.  (Like you didn't know enough about me already.)  I'm computer illiterate.   I'm also stick-shift illiterate.  (Why must some cars have stick shifts in the first place?  Isn't it enough that I remember to put the car in drive and press the pedal?)  In fact, I'm a whole-bunch-of things-illiterate.

As far as computers go, I'm trying to catch up.  I turn to my husband (who is not always a Wretch), my children, my grandchildren for help with computer calamities.  About the stick-shift, I've decided to let that go.  After all, I can't do everything!  I'm still workng to learn other things (indexing for our church's genealogy site is one) and I'm learning to let some things go

So what is my point here?  By the time a woman reaches menopause, she's had to make some choices.  (Really, lots of choices.)  She's had to decide what's important and what's not.  As you can tell from previous posts, being a hoity-toity kind of lady is not important to me.  However, being a good friend is important.  And to that end, I'm still working.

Gem for the day:  be your own kind of woman, whatever your age.  If driving a stick-shift is important, then go for it.  If not, tell that shift where to stick it.

Day 186, November 25

I was a late starter in the cyber culture.  I've even had to ask my daughter what certain text acronyms and symbols mean.  For instance, who knew that LMAO meant Laughing My Ass Off?  Certainly not me.

However, I have yet to find any of these acronyms that refer to the menopausal condition.  Always wanting to be helpful, I came up with a few of my own.  (Feel free to use them as you see fit.)

HAHFSSOOMW (Having a hot flash so stay out of my way)

YWAPOM? (You want a piece of me?)

USMS (Urgently seeking my sanity)

HOTCANWGT (Hand over the chocolate and noone will get hurt.) 

We may return to this subject later as more helpful acronyms occur to me.

Gem for the day:  you gotta keep up or risk being like your grandma who never learned to drive.

PS  Did anyone notice that the last acronym began with the letters HOT?  How appropriate is that.

Day 185, November 24

Those of you who are Starbucks aficionados are doubtless familiar with the fancy drinks offered there.  There are frappes this and mochas that.  Nowhere, though, have I seen a drink that addresses the needs of the menopause woman, especially the MMW (Mormon menopausal woman) who eschews coffee.

I have in mind some interesting drinks for Starbucks and other coffee places to put on their menu.

-  The Hot Flash in a Hurry.  This is composed of 90% ice and one percent straight chocolate syrup.  You can drink it or apply it to your chest as a poultice.

- The Stay-Out-of-My-Way.  This is composed of tomato juice, tobasco sauce, and, once again, 90% ice.  It is for those times ini a woman's life when the universe or anyone else in her orbit better not mess with her.

-  The You're-Gonna-Live-to-Regret That.  This is the revenge drink.  It is filled with fiber, flax, and a healthy dose of Cod Liver Oil.  Once a woman has a swig of this, she is ready to take names and kick butt, not necessarily in that order

Gem for the day:  if you see a woman ordering any of the above, get out of her way, 'cause she's hell on wheels and loaded for bear.

Day 184, November 23

Recently I watched a television program about a woman due to give birth at any moment.  Her midwife wanted the mother-to-be to talk to her uterus and vagina.  Now, I'm not above talking to my body parts.  You know that I've had numerous conversations with my new hip.  However, I'm reluctant to talk to my uterus and vagina, especially as they are both as old as I am.

Can you imagine the conversation:

Me;  Well, how are you guys holding up?

Uterus and vagina:  Jane, how do you THINK we're holding up?  We're each 61 years old.  We're prolasped, prolonged, and pretty much worn out.  

Me:  Sorry I asked.

U & V:  Well, you should be.  Did you forget that we carried around four children for you and then pushed them out?   And let's not forget that you saw fit to produce four extra-sized children whom your OB/GYN referred to as"tanks?"

Me:  Sorry, again.  But I refuse to take all the blame for this extra-sized children.  My husband had a lot to do with it.

U & V:  Excuses, excuses.  All we know is that we were the ones doing the work.  Where was your husband during the heavy lifting of child-bearing?

Me:  He was off having breakfast.  (This is literally true.  The Wretch saw fit to go and have breakfast while I was pushing out HIS progeny.)

U & V:  Okay.  Now we're the ones who are sorry.  You deserved better.

Me:  You got that right.

Gem for the day:  the next time you're tempted to have a converation with your lady parts, be careful.  They might be like mine and give you an earful.

Day 183, November 22

Today is Thanksgiving.  I have much to be grateful for this year.

I have plenty of food on the table, in the fridge, and in my cupboards.  I also carry my personal food storage around with me (the French call it avoir dupois--doesn't that sound so much better than fat?).

I have a warm house which keeps my avoir dupois warm and dimpled.

I have family and friends who love me (though they also think I'm more than a little crazy).

Gem for the day:  be grateful for what you have, even when you have too much of it.

Day 182, November 21

My husband, aka The Wretch, tells me that I have not fully thought through my decision to become a survivalist (see yesterday's post).  He points out (rightfully so) that I do not like the great outdoors.  I do not camp.  I do not hunt.  I do not fish.  I do not, when answering a call of nature, like to use a tree and then leaves for that very important necessary "paperwork."  He also pointed out that I am a stickler for good grammar and would be put off by a bumper sticker that is poorly written and punctuated.

I hate it when he's right.

I'm a city girl and proud of it.  If God had wanted me to be a camper, I'm certain He would have made the entire thing a lot cleaner.  However, I do like the IDEA of being a survivalist and to that end, I've decided to be my own kind of one. 

I will wear a plaid shirt, but I'll carry a designer purse with it.  (What designer best goes with the lumberjack look?)
I will have a bumper sticker, but I'll make certain that it has proper grammar.
I will probably not drive a big-ass truck as I'm afraid it will be too difficult to haul my own big ass into it, but I will put mud on the fenders of my Buick.

Gem for the day:  before announcing your attention to become a survivalist, make sure you've thought it through.  It's embarrassing to have to un-announce it.

Day 181, November 20

Recently, my husband and I were audited by the IRS.  We survived.  However, the IRS, in its infinite wisdom, decided that we owed back taxes.  (Earlier the IRS had sent us a refund which we hadn't expected. Upon further consideration, it decided it wanted its money back, plus interest--never mind that the refund had been the mistake of the IRS.)

The whole thing so de-pissed me that I was ready to move to Montana and become a survivalist.  As long as I was changing my location, I decided I'd change my vehicle and look as well.  I would exchange my Buick for a big-ass pickup, with a shotgun attached to the rear window.  On the bumper I'd have a sticker with some tough saying like "We ain't payin' no stinkin' taxes."  In the bed of the pickup, I'd have a case of beer.  (Well, really it would be a case of Propel--flavored water---but the effect would be the same.)

I'd trade my "mom clothes" for a lumberjack plaid shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots.  Over my chest, I'd wear a bandolero with bullets at the ready.   Maybe I'd tuck a chaw in the back of my mouth to complete the look.  (As I don't think I could bear the taste of tobacco, I'd probably substitute a Tootsie roll pop.)

Gem for the day:  if you're going to get a big-ass pickup that sits high from the ground, make sure your hip will allow you to climb into it.

Day 180, November 19

You're probably de-sausted and de-pissed of hearing about meeting with Hyrum's future in-laws.  I can only plead that it's weighed heavily on my mind.

In an effort to placate Hyrum and alleviate my own stress, I'd come up with what I thought was a reasonable, not to mention brilliant, solution to whole thing:  I asked my dear friend Janet to stand in for me at this crucial meeting.

Janet and I have been friends for over 35 years.  We've seen each other through pregnancies, childhood traumas and dramas, deaths of parents, and any other number of trials and tribulations.  Did I mention that Janet is the RS  President and also my visiting teacher?  (For those of you who are Mormon, you recognize the significance of that.)

Janet is the kind of angel who will do anything for anyone, so I figure, no problem.  She'll readily agree to this simple request.  Guess what?  She refused.  Yes, she flat out refused to be me for a night.  Who would have guessed?  I told her that she only needed to be me for that night and, of course, for the wedding.  Then I would take over being me again.  (In case you haven't guessed, being me is de-sausting sometimes.)

Gem for the day:  the next time I ask someone to be me, I'm going to throw chocolate into the bargain.  I'm sure to get some takers.

Day 179, November 18

In an earlier post, I wrote about our youngest son Hyrum being engaged.  A month ago, we met his lovely fiance, Cara.  When it came time to meet his future in-laws, Hyrum issued me a list of rules.

Here are a few highlights:

- Refrain from talking politics.
- Refrain from sharing how I had nursed him until he was 21 years old (no wonder my girls are drooping)
- Refrain from looking in my bosom for money when it comes time to pay the check.

Really?  These are my best material, and he wants to take them away from me?   I'd be more devastated if I weren't supposed to refrain, as well, from being de-vastated, de-pissed, de-generate, and de-sausted

Gem for the day:  if you can't be yourself, be someone fun.

Day 178, November 17

A few days ago, I wrote about a book I'd found at a garage sale, BECOMING A LADY.  It continues to intrigue me (and repulse me more than a bit.)  Because I like to share both intriguing and repulsive things with my dear friends, I thought I'd give you a few more tips on how to become a lady:

A lady never wears white after Labor Day.  (These ladies sure seem hung up on what they wear when, don't they?)

A lady never raises her voice. (Really?  How else am I to be heard when The Wretch has a football game blaring on television?)

A lady never crosses her legs. (I'm guessing she never crosses her eyes either.)

A lady is always proper in her demeanor and dress.  (Does wearing The Wretch's t-shirt, which hangs around my knees, count as proper dress?)

I'm beginning to think that a lady is a prissy prig, not to mention boring as hell.

Gem for the day:  a lady knows what's important ... and what isn't.

Day 177, November 16

The other night, my husband came home with some upsetting news about his job.  We'll be fine--it just means a bit of belt-tightening for a while.  Now I don't mind tightening my belt, but it's on the last notch as it is.  (That's a story for another day.).

In the spirit of being supportive, I decided I'd better look into a way to make some quick money.  Following are some of the things I've come up with:

- Starring in an adults-only films.  (At 61, I'm very, very adult.)
- Taking phone sex calls.  (I can put my voice to use--maybe it'll sound throaty, instead of croaky.)
- Penning a soft porn/fantasy novel.  (Soft porn being a story where the man cleans behind the refrigerator, scrubs the toilet, and mops    the floor--that's why they call it fantasy.)
- Working at Hooters.  (Surely the famous restaurant has need of a geriatric waitress with an artificial hip.)
  And, my favorite:
- Being a taster at a Krispy Kreme donut shop.

Gem for the day:  Just finished applying at Hooters.  If you can't climb onto a chair, then onto a table without assistance, they don't want you.  Do you think I can sue for age discrimination?

Day 176, November 15

Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody — no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds... Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.

Neil Gaiman

You know that I love good quotes.  So when a friend sent this to me, I knew I had to incorporate it into this blog.  I wonder what the women of  churches everywhere, of our communities, of our nation, indeed, of our world would be like if we shared our secrets with each other, those "unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds" of which Gaiman speaks so eloquently.

Would we not be able to do "unminaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, and amazing" things?  I like to think so.

I keep much of me secreted inside, for fear that if others knew those things--the fantasies, the hopes, the dreams, the fears that I harbor
--inside of me, that they would be scared senseless ... or decide that I should be locked away (as my youngest son Hyrum believes).  And you know what?  Some of those things are pretty fantastic.  You, my readers, know many of my thoughts, but there are more, many more, that simmer inside my mind, waiting for an audience, an opportunity.

(A little caveat here:  my dear friend Laurie always maintains that she doesn't want to know what's in my mind for fear that she might start thinking like me, so you might temper your response to this particular blog with that.)

So what does this have to do with menopause?  Just this:  women of my generation were taught to lock away things, to show restraint, to put on the socially accepted face that showed the world nothing.  And because we showed the world nothing, the world too frequently believed that we were nothing.

Gem for the day:  take a chance; reveal part of yourself.  You may discover "unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, and amazing worlds" in the confines of your own heart and mind.

Day 175, November 14

I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally.

W.C. Fields

I love the comedy of W.C. Fields. And while I don't hate everyone equally (I tend to parcel it out on a person-by-person basis), I can appreciate the sentiment, for, at times, I've wanted to knock a few heads together.

Take recent national events. Without going into my political preferences, I will say that I wanted to kick some serious ass  in regard to those.   And we mustn't forget the time when I told one of the women who so abused my elderly father that she was a whore. (I repeated it several times, lest she forget it.) I refuse to apologize for that. (Besides, I think the word whore is in the Bible, so it must be all right to use.) And then there was the time when, provoked beyond reason, I took my sons' Nintendo (do you remember that, with the little cords and doohickeys?) and cut through the cords with my pinking shears. (Well, I certainly wasn't doing any sewing with them.)

So, okay, I don't hate all those people, except for the whore. And my sons and I have long since made up.  But Fields's words did resonate with me. I guess it's that little naughty spot in me, a naughty spot that seems to be getting bigger all the time.

Gem for the day: if you want to kick some ass, choose your targets wisely. My sons would wipe the floor with me these days!

Day 174, November 13

The other night, in talking with friends about the benefits of "natural" beauty products, I piped up that I like a few preservatives in my creams and makeup.  (That's me--always the rebel.)  I think they (preservatives) prolong my shelf-life.

I'm not sure why everyone thinks "natural" is so great.  My "natural" in the mornings is enough to scare a marauding grizzly.  So, why should we think products without preservatives is something we should want, much less pay extra money for?  (Have you noticed that anytime a product contains the word natural, that it inevitably costs more?)

I grew up in the 60s.  (Now I'm in my 60s.)  Anyway, in the 60s, the natural look was rampant.  We all wanted to look like California girls, with long streaked hair and tanned skin.  Like those streaks were natural.  All I got from my attempts to emulate this look was freckled and burned, and I'm paying the price for my stupidity now.

Gem for the day:  don't eschew preservatives; embrace them!

Day 173, November 12

Our town issues large plastic trash cans for recycling.  On the lid of the can the words "No Hot Ashes" are embossed.  It shows my state of mind when each time I read that, I see "No Hot Flashes." 

I've been flashing for more than a decade, way before I officially hit the Big M.  Hot flashes rule my choice of wardrobe, where the temperatures of the house and car are set (meatlocker cold), even my husband's behavior, as he knows that, when I'm flashing, there's going to be nothing going on elsewhere.

It takes only the words "I've never had a problem with hot flashes" from another woman for me to take an instant and intense dislike to her.  Really?  No hot flashes.  Never mind coveting beautiful homes, new cars, and size 4 bodies--I envy anyone who doesn't flash.

Gem for the day:  if you encounter a woman such as the above, find out what drugs she's taking.  Quick.

Day 172, November 11

The other day I found, at a garage sale, a book on entitled BECOMING A LADY.  I assumed it to be a tongue-in-cheek type book.  It wasn't.  Unable to help myself, I started reading aloud to my two garage sale buddies.

Here are a few of the rules of becoming a lady:

A lady never wears linen before Easter or after Labor Day.  (Whew.  I'm safe there as I don't wear linen at all.  Too much ironing.)

A lady always wears lipstick. (Really?  When she's in her sweats or her husband's t-shirt that reaches to her knees?)

A lady never nags.  (Oh, right.  How do you think my three sons got their Eagle awards in scouting?)

A lady never whines.  (Okay.  This is probably good, but whining is one of my favorite activities, right after eating, swearing, and reading.)

A lady never finds fault with others.  (Another good one.  I'm sure I could do better at it if I didn't encounter people at garage sales who are asking ridiculous prices for their junk.)

The list of what a lady does and doesn't do continued until I was in danger of puking on the driveway of the person holding the garage sale.  (I didn't see it listed, but I'm guessing that a lady never pukes in public.)

Gem for the day:  a lady is one who cares about others.  Period.

Day 171, November 10

There are some who will tell you that I have an off-beat sense of humor.  They'd be right.  My sense of humor does not always match that of others. 

Take yesterday.  My husband, AKA The Wretch, and I were taking a walk through the neighborhood.  Really, it's more of a plod as that's as fast as I can move.  We came upon some men doing street work.  One poor man had the inutterably tedious  job of holding the sign that read "Slow" on one side and "Stop" on the other. 

He looked so terribly bored that I walked up to him and asked, "Does that sign (turned to the "Slow" side)  refer to us?"  I gestured to my husband and myself, two people well into middle age. 

He gave me a bemused look.  (I get that a lot.)  "Uh, no."

"Good," I answered with a cheery smile.

We walked away.  I could feel his stare on the back of my neck.  I'm sure he was more than a bit confused at a strange woman accosting him in this way.  If he knew some of my other antics, he'd probably have run in the opposite direction. 

"Am I weird?" I asked my beloved.

"No.  You're just mildly eccentric."

Is it any wonder I keep him around?

Gem for the day:  march to the beat of your own drummer.  And, if you don't have one, do a little rat-a-tat-tat in you head, then march to that.  

Day 170, November 9

Do you know what?  It's hard coming up with material for a daily blog.  So, if you have something in mind you'd like me to address in my de-pissed, de-sausted, de-generate way, please write it in. 

Until then, I'l return to one of my favorite subjects.  Husbands.  My husband, AKA The Wretch, has taken to leaving comments on this blog.  Unfortunately, I cannot always trust him to leave appropriate comments.  (Of course, I have been known to be a trifle inappropriate at times, so I guess I get what I deserve.)

Anyway, The Wretch is a good man, a kind man, a faithful man. (That faithfulness may stem from his fear that I will indeed cut off his balls if he ever strays, but I prefer to give him the benefit of a doubt and just say that he's faithful.  Period.)   He is also a generous man.  He takes care of not just our family but extends his help to my sister's family as well. 

Gem for the day:  if you have a good, kind, faithful (for whatever reasons) and generous man, you're a lucky woman.  My husband will tell you so.

Day 169, November 8

I'm an underachiever.  Always have been.

Take reading:  I only read "20 Shades of Gray."  I couldn't handle all fifty.  To tell the truth, I got de-sausted.  All those positions and activity.  A woman's got to be a lot more flexible than I am to handle that.

Then there was my attempt at cooking.  I was going to be like Julie of "Julia and Julie" and cook my way through "The Joy of Cooking."  The trouble was, I don't find any joy in cooking.

And let's not forget my ill-fated foray into sewing.  Who knew that you had to iron when you sewed I don't believe in ironing.  All that steam takes the curl right out of my hair.

Well, there you have it.  The life of an underachiever.

Gem for the day:  take a walk on the low road.  It's a lot more comfortable than the high one.  Of course, it's also more crowded.

Day 168, November 7

Yesterday I wrote about having lunch with a friend the day before.  In between my teasing the waitress and manager about being carded if we ordered a drink, my friend and I discussed her upcoming "women's health appointment."  In case you're wondering, that's code for the YPE (yearly pelvic exam).

I've blogged about that particular pleasure in past posts.  As we talked, I picked up the cocktail napkin, about two inches square, and said, "This is what they give you to cover yourself with."

My friend nodded.  "It's going to take a hell of a lot napkins to cover me."  Then she lowered her voice and added another insight. (Did I mention that, like me, she is exceptionally wise?)  "You know those half gowns they give you to cover your upper half?  Do you sweat through yours?"

"Like a fieldhand in an Arizona summer."   The paper gowns, made out of the cheapest paper available, dissolve at the least hint of moisture, AKA sweat.  And what woman, with her feet up in the air, her private parts exposed, and a doctor sticking an ice   cold speculum up her business, isn't sweating like a pig?

Gem for the day:  before you go for your next YPE, consider taking a shot of tequila.

Day 167, November 6

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend.  We are both "women of a certain age."  A sign at the restaurant proclaiming the need to "card" anyone appearing to be under 21, prompted me to ask the sweet waitress, "If my friend and I ordered margaritas, would you card us?"

She gave me a blank look. 

"We want to be carded," I said.  It so happens that neither my friend nor I drink anything stronger than lemonade, but, still, I wanted to know that if we were to order a drink, that she would do us the courtesy of carding us.

"Uh, sure." 

"That was naughty," my friend said when the waitress departed.

She was right.  It was naughty.  But then so am I.

Shortly afterward we had finished our meal, the manager squatted down at the end of our booth.  "I'm new here and I just wanted to see how your dining experience was."

"Everything was great," I assured him.  "The food, the service.  There was just one thing, though."

A look of conern creased his smoother-than-smooth forehead.  (Did I mention that he looked to be the age of my 9 year old grandson?)  "What's that?"

"The waitress didn't want to card us if we ordered drinks."

Bemusement clouded his eyes.  "Did you want to order drinks?"

"No.  We just wanted her to card us."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Gem for the day:  if you want to be carded, choose a place where the waitstaff and manager have really poor eyesight.

Day 166, November 5

Are you as weary as I am of political ads telling women how they should feel?  We're told how we should feel about contraception, abortion, and any number of other private matters.  Because I have a rebellious streak (really it's more than a streak; it's all through me), I resent having someone else telling me how I should feel. 

With many decades under my belt (and my chin), I have had time to figure out how I feel about things.  Especially intimate matters.  I don't need or want a politician speaking for me.  I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself.  So when I hear that I should be outraged over one candidate's position on birth control, I want to ask "Are you talking about the missionary position or a different one?"

I know, that's really naughty of me.  What can I say?  Too long without estrogen.

Gem for the day:  if someone tells you what you ought to feel, tell them to stick it where the sun don't shine.

Day 165, November 4

My mother was Tennessee born and bred.  Southerners have their own language.  One of my mother's favorite expressions was "Don't be ugly."

Being ugly meant bad-mouthing someone (unless you preface it with "Bless her heart), being selfish, being mean, just being plain old nasty.  Unfortunately, I have been ugly plenty of times in my life.  Mostly it was unintentional, but sometimes my "uglies" came out deliberately.  (Just ask my ex-daughter in law.)  I was ugly with her.  I was ugly with the women who fleeced my father of his life's savings.  I tend to be downright ornery and ugly to anyone who hurts my family.  (It's that mama grizzly thing.)

So, okay, that's nothing to brag about.  And I'm not really bragging, just 'fessing up to the uglies in me.  I want to plead it's genetic, what with my southern roots and all.  But then there's my Aunt Mae, also Tennessee born and bred, who hasn't an ugly bone in her body.

Gem for the day:  the uglies will get you if you don't watch out.

Day 164, November 3

By the time a woman has reached menopause, she has attended more meetings than a southerner has said "Bless your heart."  We have attended civic meetings, church meetings, and PTA meetings.  We have attended meetings with our children's teachers, meetings with our children's orthodontists, and meetings with our own therapists (we have issues about meetings). 

Let's go back to the church meetings.  If a woman is an MMW (Mormon Menopausal Woman), she has attended thousands upon thousands of church meetings.  (I did a rough calculation and figured that I had attended somewhere along the lines of 7,500 church  meetings in my lifetime.)  She has attended Sacrament Meetings, Sunday School Meetings, Relief Society Meetings.  She has attended stake meetings, welfare meetings, and planning meetings.  Just when she is about meeting-ed out, she is told she must attend a meeting about meetings.

Our family has coined a term for meeting-itis:  church butt.  Yes, by the time she is menopausal, an MMW has a severe case of church butt.  In my usual spiritual fashion, I penned a limmerick about this condition:

In the Mormon church we meet
Till my feet are as tired as my seat.
I wouldn't complain
If it weren't for the pain
Of making my spirit so sweet.

(Please forgive the uneven meter and juvenile rhyming.)

Gem for the day:  even an ample booty, like mine, won't save you from church butt.

PS  Attending meetings won't get you to heaven.  Sorry.

Day 163, November 2

You're learning all my secrets.  My goofiness.  My selfishness.  My everything else-ness.  That's all right.  I'm getting so forgetful any more that it's all right if I spill my secrets because I'd probably blab them unknowingly anyway.

Well, here's another one:  I have a sweet tooth.  I love all things sugar:  chocolate, cheesecake, apple pie, pumpkin roll, blueberry muffins, French toast, waffles smothered with whipped cream, and a host of other things that Dr. Oz says we should avoid like the plague.

I've never thought that last made much sense as I've never encountered the plague, so how would I know how to avoid it?  And why is he comparing the above delights to such a heinous thing as the plague?  I don't tend to take him very seriously.  You have to wonder about a grown man who runs around in his scrubs on national TV.  I figure he has identity issues.

You're probably thinking:  well, Jane, your sweet tooth is no secret.  We see its effects--on your stomach, on your thighs, on your booty, and everywhere else.

Gem for the day:  if you avoid sugar like the plague, you're probably not friends with me.  Your loss. 

Day 162, November 1

Those who know me know that I'm not a fancy person.  I wear garage sale clothes, furnish my home with garage sale finds, and am generally a "Secondhand Rose."

That's fine with me.  When you're a fancy person, people expect things from you.  They expect you to act right and talk right and just be right.  I'd rather be fun.

My family doesn't always see the fun in me. Sometimes they think I'm just goofy.  There was the time that I put a garage sale sticker for twenty-five cents on the back of Larry's (aka The Wretch) shirt which he wore around for an entire day before someone commented on it.  There was the time that I put a kitchen spatula (yes, I know what a spatula looks like) in the hood of my niece's jacket, which she carried around, unknowingly, for a day.  Then there was the time I stuffed my bra with a large zucchini and said to my 87-year-old father, "Dad, do you notice that I've grown?"  (He only shook his head in bemusement.)

As I re-read the last paragraph, I realize that I really am goofy.  Oh, well.  That's what happens when you are out of estrogen.

Gem for the day: forget about being right.  It's a lot more fun to be goofy.