Most of us menopausers have had mothers-in-law and/or are mothers-in-law. MILs have a bad rep. We're portrayed in the most heinous and nasty of ways. Mostly I'm all right with that. I figure a healthy dose of respect ... or fear ... in an in-law child is a good thing. After all, before a woman becomes a mother-in-law, she is first, and foremost, a mother. (My ex daughter-in-law knows exactly where she stands with me.)
When I learned of a dear friiend's daughter who had been cheated on by her husband with the resulting pain of divorce, I decided to take my SIL aside and, in my genteel, lady-like manner, put the fear of all that's holy in him if he ever cheated on my daughter. I described to him that I would hunt him down like a feral dog, strip the flesh from his bones, and then rip his still-beating heart from his body if he hurt my baby girl.
How's that for a sweet Mormon wife, mother, and grandmother?
Really, my SIL and I have a good relationship. After all, fear is a prime motivator.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Day 79, August 9
By the time a woman reaches menopause, she has collected a lot of experience (way too much experience) with all manner of feminine protection. (And by feminine protection, I don't mean tae kwon do.)
You know the kinds of things I'm talking about: sanitary napkins, tampons, panty liners. Grocery stores and drug stores devote aisle after aisle to such products. They are all couched in generic language such as "feminine products" or "health aids." The trick is finding the right "product" or "aid" for you.
By the time I reached the panty liner end of the aisle in my shopping, I was not only confused. I was pissed. To use a menopausal word, I was de-pissed. Why did manufacturers decide that we needed wings on our panty liners? I always thought the point was to have the darn things stay put, not fly about with abandon.
Once I'd reached menopause, I'd (naively) thought that I was past trying to figure out the whole thing. No such luck.
Now I need panty liners for a whole new purpose. (That nasty leakage thing.) Once again, I'm faced with the decision making process.
Fortunately, my decision was made for me when the Universe placed a sign in front of me: I saw a panty liner winging its way past., beckoning me to buy her.
You know the kinds of things I'm talking about: sanitary napkins, tampons, panty liners. Grocery stores and drug stores devote aisle after aisle to such products. They are all couched in generic language such as "feminine products" or "health aids." The trick is finding the right "product" or "aid" for you.
By the time I reached the panty liner end of the aisle in my shopping, I was not only confused. I was pissed. To use a menopausal word, I was de-pissed. Why did manufacturers decide that we needed wings on our panty liners? I always thought the point was to have the darn things stay put, not fly about with abandon.
Once I'd reached menopause, I'd (naively) thought that I was past trying to figure out the whole thing. No such luck.
Now I need panty liners for a whole new purpose. (That nasty leakage thing.) Once again, I'm faced with the decision making process.
Fortunately, my decision was made for me when the Universe placed a sign in front of me: I saw a panty liner winging its way past., beckoning me to buy her.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Day 78, August 8
Well, here I am again, after a brief hiatus.
We're returning to a subject beloved by women of all ages: that of breasts. Have you noticed that most women are never satisfied with the size of their breasts? We are either too little or too big, too flat or too generously proportioned.
I found a story on AOL news about a woman who was not only satisfied with her breasts, but made a living from them. She has the distinction of having the world's largest (natural) breasts, measuring in at a bra size of 102 ZZZ. Her breasts alone weigh 85 pounds. The woman reported that she had never considered surgery, that God had given her these breasts and she was making the best (or is that breast?) of them. She makes a very respectable living by performing in soft core porn movies, having starred in more than 50 of them.
Good for her.
Though I don't aspire to star in soft core porn, I do admire a woman who supports herself. (I just wonder what kind of bra she wears to support those money-makers of hers.)
What's the point of today's post?
Celebrate yourself. Whether you are a 28 AAA or a 102 ZZZ, rejoice in who you are. (And don't discount the idea of a career in show-biz.)
We're returning to a subject beloved by women of all ages: that of breasts. Have you noticed that most women are never satisfied with the size of their breasts? We are either too little or too big, too flat or too generously proportioned.
I found a story on AOL news about a woman who was not only satisfied with her breasts, but made a living from them. She has the distinction of having the world's largest (natural) breasts, measuring in at a bra size of 102 ZZZ. Her breasts alone weigh 85 pounds. The woman reported that she had never considered surgery, that God had given her these breasts and she was making the best (or is that breast?) of them. She makes a very respectable living by performing in soft core porn movies, having starred in more than 50 of them.
Good for her.
Though I don't aspire to star in soft core porn, I do admire a woman who supports herself. (I just wonder what kind of bra she wears to support those money-makers of hers.)
What's the point of today's post?
Celebrate yourself. Whether you are a 28 AAA or a 102 ZZZ, rejoice in who you are. (And don't discount the idea of a career in show-biz.)
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Day 77, August 4
You probably feel that you are on pretty intimate terms with my various body parts by now. You've learned about my 2 stomachs, my thighs that rub together to produce enough friction to light a hundred boy scout campfires, my drooping breasts, my newly replaced hip, not to mention the hairs that grow in increasingly embarrassing places.
Are you asking yourselves "What can the crazy lady write about now?"
Well, it's going to be a different kind of post. Skip it if you'd like as it won't be the usual fare.
In the midst of dealing with ever-changing bodies, menopausal women also face changes in their emotions. My emotions have always been haywire. Part of that is that I really am crazy. (Ask my family.) Part of that is due to chemical depression. There. I've said it. I suffer from chemical depression and have for nearly 40 years.
To use the vernacular, it sucks.
Depression takes an all right day and turns it on its head until its victim wants to hide under the covers and wait for the cloud to pass. Depression makes you wonder why you bother to get up at all and why you should stay up if you did manage to pull yourself out of the bed. Depression makes you feel like the worst kind of failure. Depression makes you doubt the love of your family and friends. Depression makes you doubt the love of your Father in Heaven.
Good Mormon women aren't supposed to admit to any of this. We are suppose to hold our heads up high, sing "High on a Mountain Top" and praise be that we are alive. Good thing that I've never claimed to be a Good Mormon Woman, now referred to as GMWs.
Take a depressed woman, add the screwed up hormones of menopause, and you have a woman ready to use a taser or gun on her nearest and dearest. Is it any wonder my beloved refused to buy me a weapon for my birthday? (See? I still have my sense of humor.) Add to that nasty brew a healthy dose of the guilt that GMWs carry around like the Ancient Mariner carried around the infamous albatross and you have a recipe for disaster.
Depression is a disease. It is a disease as debilitating as diabetes, as pernicious as high blood pressure, and as nasty as cancer. Yet we are fearful to tell others about it. We are fearful that they will turn away from us. We are fearful that other GMWs and GMM (Good Mormon Men) will look down on us.
Think that's not so? Ask any depressed woman and you will hear "No, I can't talk about that. I can't let others know. They'll tell me to eat the right foods. They'll tell me to read the scriptures. They'll tell me to serve others. They'll tell me to run 5 miles every day."
All good things. But they won't cure chemical depression. And neither will judging them.
Did you know that Utah, especially Utah County, has one of the highest rates of depression in the country? Did you also know that Utah has one of the highest rates of suicide in the country? Something to ponder.
Okay. Enough of this depressing stuff. (I made a funny.)
Here's our joke for the day: How many depressed women does it take to change a light bulb?
Answer: Five. One to change it and four to bring Prozac.
Are you asking yourselves "What can the crazy lady write about now?"
Well, it's going to be a different kind of post. Skip it if you'd like as it won't be the usual fare.
In the midst of dealing with ever-changing bodies, menopausal women also face changes in their emotions. My emotions have always been haywire. Part of that is that I really am crazy. (Ask my family.) Part of that is due to chemical depression. There. I've said it. I suffer from chemical depression and have for nearly 40 years.
To use the vernacular, it sucks.
Depression takes an all right day and turns it on its head until its victim wants to hide under the covers and wait for the cloud to pass. Depression makes you wonder why you bother to get up at all and why you should stay up if you did manage to pull yourself out of the bed. Depression makes you feel like the worst kind of failure. Depression makes you doubt the love of your family and friends. Depression makes you doubt the love of your Father in Heaven.
Good Mormon women aren't supposed to admit to any of this. We are suppose to hold our heads up high, sing "High on a Mountain Top" and praise be that we are alive. Good thing that I've never claimed to be a Good Mormon Woman, now referred to as GMWs.
Take a depressed woman, add the screwed up hormones of menopause, and you have a woman ready to use a taser or gun on her nearest and dearest. Is it any wonder my beloved refused to buy me a weapon for my birthday? (See? I still have my sense of humor.) Add to that nasty brew a healthy dose of the guilt that GMWs carry around like the Ancient Mariner carried around the infamous albatross and you have a recipe for disaster.
Depression is a disease. It is a disease as debilitating as diabetes, as pernicious as high blood pressure, and as nasty as cancer. Yet we are fearful to tell others about it. We are fearful that they will turn away from us. We are fearful that other GMWs and GMM (Good Mormon Men) will look down on us.
Think that's not so? Ask any depressed woman and you will hear "No, I can't talk about that. I can't let others know. They'll tell me to eat the right foods. They'll tell me to read the scriptures. They'll tell me to serve others. They'll tell me to run 5 miles every day."
All good things. But they won't cure chemical depression. And neither will judging them.
Did you know that Utah, especially Utah County, has one of the highest rates of depression in the country? Did you also know that Utah has one of the highest rates of suicide in the country? Something to ponder.
Okay. Enough of this depressing stuff. (I made a funny.)
Here's our joke for the day: How many depressed women does it take to change a light bulb?
Answer: Five. One to change it and four to bring Prozac.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Day 76, August 3
A few days ago I wrote about Lady Clairol. Lady Clairol and I have become intimate friends; in fact, we're on a first name basis. I call her "Lady" and she returns the favor by referring to me as Jane.
We meet about once a month. In years gone by, our meetings took place only every three or four months. However, stress, age, and global warning have turned our acquaintanceship into an on-going affair.
When I've waited too long before getting together, she greets my gray roots with a sigh of disapproval.
L.C. : You know you can't wait more than four weeks before we get together.
Me: (Shamefaced) I know.
L.C.: Your roots are screaming to be covered.
Me: I know.
L.C. Let's not wait so long before we meet again.
Me. Okay.
Lady Clairol and I. If not a match made in heaven, we're at least bosom buddies.
We meet about once a month. In years gone by, our meetings took place only every three or four months. However, stress, age, and global warning have turned our acquaintanceship into an on-going affair.
When I've waited too long before getting together, she greets my gray roots with a sigh of disapproval.
L.C. : You know you can't wait more than four weeks before we get together.
Me: (Shamefaced) I know.
L.C.: Your roots are screaming to be covered.
Me: I know.
L.C. Let's not wait so long before we meet again.
Me. Okay.
Lady Clairol and I. If not a match made in heaven, we're at least bosom buddies.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Day 75, August 2
Does your mind ever stumble around like a drunken sailor searching for the right word when you're talking with others? Mine does. It fumbles and fumes (fumbilated) as it struggles to find the word it's looking for.
In a word, I'm flustrated. (Flustrated, of course, is a combination of flustered and frustrated.) When I'm upset, I'm depissed. (Depressed + pissed.) I am in danger of becoming Mrs. Malaprop.
Ah, well. My family and friends already think I'm croofy (crazy + goofy). Good thing I can live with it.
In a word, I'm flustrated. (Flustrated, of course, is a combination of flustered and frustrated.) When I'm upset, I'm depissed. (Depressed + pissed.) I am in danger of becoming Mrs. Malaprop.
Ah, well. My family and friends already think I'm croofy (crazy + goofy). Good thing I can live with it.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Day 74, August 1
Those of us of in the MM age know that we face multiple medical procedures. Most of these end with the letters "oscopy." Foremost are the endoscopy and the colonoscopy. Both of these involve having tubes stuck in or up various bodily orifices. I don't know about you, but I'm not a fan of having tubes stuck up, down, in, or around my orifices.
My orifices are tender. They are frequently dry. And they resent the hell of being the playthings of doctors.
Still, we persist in doing these procedures for our health. Have you noticed that we do a lot of unpleasant things in the name of health? We exercise. We eat food that our ancestors would have tossed in a heartbeat (i.e. rice cakes and sprouts). We plaster our faces with masques desigined to tighten our pores and erase our wrinkles. (They don't work, but still we do it.)
And now, at an age when we should be allowed to rest and recuperate from the rigors of childbirth and childrearing, we're told we need to be scoped. Like so much about menopause, we grit our teeth and try to come up with a reason why this is good for us.
Ah, well, Lie back and think of England.
My orifices are tender. They are frequently dry. And they resent the hell of being the playthings of doctors.
Still, we persist in doing these procedures for our health. Have you noticed that we do a lot of unpleasant things in the name of health? We exercise. We eat food that our ancestors would have tossed in a heartbeat (i.e. rice cakes and sprouts). We plaster our faces with masques desigined to tighten our pores and erase our wrinkles. (They don't work, but still we do it.)
And now, at an age when we should be allowed to rest and recuperate from the rigors of childbirth and childrearing, we're told we need to be scoped. Like so much about menopause, we grit our teeth and try to come up with a reason why this is good for us.
Ah, well, Lie back and think of England.
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