Menopause Diaries

This morning, a gynecologist-slash-menopause doctor on the Today show said it’s good to document menopause phase of your life with a diary—“Chart any changes, emotional or physical, to help you better understand yourself and keep it all in perspective.” And you must BE HONEST she said. A diary can act as a confidant, she said. “Pour out all your fears, complaints and maladies in the diary and spare your husband!” Matt Lauer laughed at this in a Hey, I know what you mean, women can be such pain in the asses, sort of way.

            I’d like to start with the crying. I have been crying for no explicable reason these days.  I thought this crying was just over-exaggerated manifestation of my usual neurosis, but after being enlightened by the Today Show, I understand I am not alone. Apparently, lots of 52 plus year old women are wading through the same swamp of unidentifiable despair, but somehow, that does not make ME feel any better.   No one is going through menopause, as I AM GOING THROUGH IT. I am special.           

            (When I used to cry, in my twenties, over men, it did not comfort me that there were possibly thousands, no, millions of women out there who did not have a boyfriend. I only cared that I did not have one. My mother used to sit next to me on my tissue-laden bed and say, “Lots of girls are single at 27 years old. You are so BEA-U-TI-FUL, think of the poor ugly ones. They may NEVER find anyone. I assure you, you will find someone, and then the real crying will start! (Ha, ha) Now dry your eyes and drive me to the supermarket.”)

  Last night, again, I burst out crying for no reason. This should definitely be documented. Oh, sure, I MADE UP a reason so Husband would not think I was loosing my mind, but there was NO REAL REASON. 

So as not to be hauled off to an expensive, New York therapist, here are some stock reasons I use as an excuse for my crying bouts:

1.  My mother is getting older, 75, and it’s sad to see her this way. (She has a boyfriend with whom she spends every weekend and is never home what with all the clubs and the dances and the luncheons. This is the weakest of reasons.)

2.  Anything job related. (The 8^th graders this year are so awful. They have no respect and they don’t do their homework. (surprise, surprise) OR—I am overwhelmed with paperwork and can’t even find time to teach effective lessons. OR—The male teachers I work with do not pull their weight. And on and on and on. This school related reason is often real.)

3. My favorite: I FEEL UGLY. (This one actually does makes me feel better, because Husband will sit next to me on the bed and put his arm around me and tell me that I’m all wrong and that I am BEA-U-TI-FUL and if I dry my eyes he will take me to Home Depot and allow me to wile away an hour or so oogling window treatments and lighting fixtures he has no intention of ever buying while he discusses the joys and disappointments of spackle with an “associate”.

4. I miss our three boys. (One, Jon, away at college, twelve blocks away at NYU. One, Alex, just graduated NYU and in his own apartment near Washington Square, eight blocks away, and one, Nick, passed away at 21 from Leukemia a year and a half ago—very legitimate reason to cry-- but usually not the reason. (I tend to save up crying over Nick for certain, compartmentalized times, usually in his room or when I see a picture. Even then, it’s not the real boo-hoo type crying one would expect or even want to see from a mother under these circumstances. It’s just a whole lot of head talk, like, think of something else, think of something else, shit, shit, shit, think of something else.  I am not totally proud of this and sometimes I wonder why I don’t cry harder and more often, instead of just sitting on the edge of his bed, glazed over, and forcing myself to look around and remember things that hurt, like tubes and pill bottles and the way he would shuffle into his room from the bathroom like a 90 year old man, skinny and pale. It’s like that accident cliché where you can’t stand to look, but you can’t look away. )

Shit, shit, shit! I’m going to cry. Let me change the subject. I’m getting very good at that.

The first time this crying thing happened, I was in Miami, about few years ago. Husband and I took a little vacation with the 3 boys. The first morning we woke up, husband goes out for his usual triathlon of exercise and I planned to take a shower.

Funny, the things you discover about yourself when you are away on vacation and out of your normal element. I had no idea I was so persnickety about my showers, but apparently I am. At home, I have a showerhead that can be removed and held in-hand to wash all those HARD TO REACH PLACES. Places where the sun doesn’t usually shine, unless you bend over to pick up your sunglasses on a nude beach, which let’s face it, doesn’t happen all that often. I like things immaculately clean in those shady places because all the TV advertisements have made me acutely aware of how important it is to start the day “fresh”, therefore, “more confident.”

            So I got in the shower, down there in Miami, and I started the water. AND THEN I looked up and saw it. A stationary showerhead!! STATIONARY. And there was no water pressure to speak of.  The water was coming out in a dribble—like the drinking fountains in Central Park.

            I tried to play along. I lifted one leg and angled my pelvis skyward.  Dribble, dribble. Nothing got wet except my knees.

            Feelings of frustration and upsetment quickly started to well up in my chest and my throat and suddenly and without warning, I BURST OUT CRYING. Just like that. Burst right out in hysterics. Then, even more suddenly, and with even less warning, I burst into a hysterical laughter—IN THE SHOWER. I was laughing and crying hysterically in the shower in the middle of Miami Beach because the water could not, would not, reach my private parts.

            The boys were now pressed to the others side of the bathroom door.

            “Mom! Mom! Are you okay in there? Mom! What’s the matter?”

            “Nothing. Sob, sob. “Nothing.” Ha-ha. “Don’t worry. It’s—sob, my hormones.” Big, long sob, followed by burst of hysterical laughter. Yes, laughter. That's when I became alarmed.

            And that, dear reader, was the beginning. The start of the peri-menopausal nightmare I currently find myself in today—a constant state of indecision, hysteria, anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmingly overwhelmed all the time. I went from being a fairly together, emotionally stable wife, mother, and 8^th grade teacher to the indecisive, psychotic, and let’s face it, annoying wreck that I am today.

So here's my question. Am I alone here?

          

Sweethearts for Soldiers

I have an idea I would like to bounce off all of you. As my son lies here in the hospital, I can clearly see what a positive effect his girlfriend has on his progress. When she calls, writes letters or comes to visit, he looks better, feels better and has less icky feelings in general. I would bet the same goes for the soldiers in Iraq. The ones with a sweetheart at home, probably get a boost in moral when they receive a letter or package from their honey-pie. But what about the service men and women who don't have anyone? I was thinking of a program where non-soldiers here at home who are looking for someone start writing to the soldiers who want someone. Sort of flirting and getting to know each other by letter writing. Even if it doesn't become the love of their life, at least they would have made a friend and have some letters to look forward to.
What do you think about this idea?

Success Spelling Error

Sorry. Pushed "Publish" too fast without checking spelling.

A Metro Card Could Be the Key to Your Finacial Success

I did not know until I moved back to New York, that one could actually get on a subway car, call for every one's attention and get your bills paid!  This is true.  I saw it myself while riding the F train one day.  A man got on my car, cleared his throat rather loudly, expectorated and once we all settled down in polite silence, proceeded to tell us that he could not pay for his electric bill and how he had an 18 month old baby and could we please help out. He seemed like such a nice guy,too. He had what looked like very sensible blue jeans and a faded red tee-shirt that said simply, "Jordash". He gave an emotional speech about how ConEd refused to take into consideration that he was out of work and he was out of work because his last job refused to take into consideration that he was not aware that the term "coffee break" really was meant for just coffee and sometimes tea, but never, ever beverages drunk out of brown paper bags. One just got the feeling as we were sitting there that the whole world was against this guy and if we, the passengers of the F train, were not part of the solution, we were, in reality, part of the problem. He then proceeded to come around to each person with a Styrofoam take out container asking us all to "do our best."  And most of us did.  I'm sure he had enough to pay that inconsiderate ConEd bill with enough left over to hit up Grey's Papaya on the way home.  Then he exited our car and went on to the next, presumably to fund his cell phone bill. I imagine he then went on to the next car for his rent, the next for grocery money and so on. I was so glad for him that it was such a very long train.

I am very tempted after witnessing this brilliant display of entrepreneurialism, to get on a subway car, clear my throat and announce to the passengers, "AHEM! Kind ladies and Gentleman, I have two strapping young boys enrolled in NYU! I am so proud of them, but it is so expensive..."

Fear and Panic Do Not Burn Calories

Hello anyone out there. I have been away for quite a while because my son is in the hospital. It's hard to write about, but he is undergoing a bone marrow transplant to hopefully put an end to his leukemia. It's horrible. So, as you can imagine it has been hard to find anything funny to write about, and one may say, well then don't write funny. But I think who in the world would want to read something that would make you feel worse than you did before? As soon as anything tickles my funny bone, like one of the nurses pants fall down, or food services sends me a Cesar salad instead of the ever popular tossed variety, I'll be sure to share it with the world.
Thanks
Chris

Condiments Can Enhance Your Marriage

A VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By Chris Sherman
Condiments can enhance your marriage
Nothing says “I love you” like a pickle. A pickle on your spouse’s plate shows how much you care. It’s that little extra thought that keeps the romance in a marriage. Anyone is capable of making a sandwich for someone they care about, but choosing just the right pickle takes time and effort, therefore proclaiming your love in loud, vinegary tones.

The element of surprise sets the romantic heart aflutter. Year after year, your partner made sandwiches sitting there lonely on a plate. Now you come along and make him a sandwich and there is suddenly a pickle. Seeing a pickle where a person does not expect to see one starts a mild adrenaline rush. The receiver of the pickle may mistake this feeling for love. They would never dream it was the presence of the pickle weaving its magical spell. They will think it’s the wonder of you, and your thoughtfulness, and they will relish in their good fortune.

Pickles aren’t the only thing in your refrigerator that can enhance your marriage. After all, you can’t have pickles with everything. Ketchup, for instance, has inadvertently been responsible for many a good marriage. Ketchup is red, the color of love. Red ketchup sends a subliminal message to your partner like no other condiment. He knows it reminds him of something, but he doesn’t realize that it is the memory of his lost romantic love for you. He just knows that when he sees the smooth red condiment he wants to just lean over and kiss you square on the mouth right in the middle of his hamburger.

Should you and your partner have a quarrel, the best recipe for making up should include mayonnaise. Mayonnaise is smooth and creamy and can be soothing to the temper. Let me suggest a turkey sandwich with plenty of mayonnaise. The creamy subtle taste of the turkey, combined with the smooth, slightly tangy taste of the mayo, will calm the roaring beast in his soul. How can anyone harbor hostile feelings toward someone who liberally uses mayonnaise as a salve for a sore and aching heart? If the situation is an argument in the extreme, usually concerning mothers-in-law or money, making the effort to add the romantic properties of the afore mentioned pickle to this sandwich of love, will show that you are willing to make the first move in the healing process. This will only enhance the effect, resulting, no doubt, in lots of syrupy words of apology and hugging, accompanied by a side order of kissing.

Are the two of you getting board with each other? You know each other too well and you are finishing each other’s sentences? Honey mustard will correct this common marriage dilemma in no time. When your partner is expecting just plain old yellow mustard and you surprise her with honey mustard, she may see you in a different light. Honey mustard is all at once sweet and then spicy, just like you are. The sweetness washes over the tongue, soon to be chased away and overwhelmed by a fiery tang. Wow! How many ham sandwiches have hit the floor in a frantic attempt to reach across the table to rediscover one another? Soon you’ll be hand in hand, giggling and cooing like newlyweds. If you were planning an expensive vacation to jump-start your tired marriage, save your money. Honey mustard is where it’s at.

Romance, left unattended, can die like yesterday’s meatloaf. Mundane, everyday life has a way of taking over the best of marriages, leaving them tasteless and bland. In order for romance to stay alive, there needs to be a bit of extra effort on both your parts. Condiments are the perfect place to start. Fire your therapist, throw away all your self-help books and get down to the grocery store. Load up on all things pickley; dill pickles, pickled peppers and sweet pickled watermelon rinds. Get the BIG bottle of ketchup and a vat of honey mustard. The way to the heart belongs on the refrigerator door. Take my advise, and you’ll be happily celebrating your 75th wedding anniversary deli style!
-30-

My mother has a boyfriend

Mom’s in Love

My sixty-five year old mother has a boyfriend. And just when I thought it was safe to go back into the world and live my life. Now that I’ve gotten the children to feed and dress themselves and my husband to choose his own ties with confidence, I find myself playing senior psychologist for my new man-minded mother and her new-found romance. Our phone calls feel more like psychologist’s sessions than our usual mother/daughter chats. She is no longer the calm and in-control mom I used to know. She’s become an insecure neurotic wreck.
All of a sudden she is now extremely body conscience. In a heroic attempt to lose her non-dating weight, Mom is existing merely on broccoli on Branola sandwiches. There’s no more picking between meals, no more of her old rationalizations like, “carrot cake is a vegetable.” No more chocolate bars with her L. A. Law. She now “works out” at a gym called Sinewy Seniors. Every morning she goes to “feel the burn”. This from a woman who used to consider getting out of bed a sit-up.
She’s obsessed with her wardrobe. Her new clothing expenditures exceed that of the gross national debt. He must never see her in the same thing twice. She must really have high hopes for this relationship, because she has already stockpiled a wardrobe that will take them well into their nineties and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already secured an outfit for his funeral.
She is constantly reading into everything the poor guy says and does. Even their hand-holding has not escaped her scrutiny. In one of our “sessions”, she confides, “Last week he held my hand during the whole movie. This week he only held it through the previews. I purposely didn’t get popcorn so our hands would be free. Then, right after the previews, he gets up and gets this huge vat of popcorn and a large drink. I definitely think he’s avoiding intimacy.”
I try to reassure her. “Maybe he just needs more fiber in his diet.”
In our next “session”, she wants to know why he only takes her out for lunch.
I say, in my cool, detached psychologist’s voice, “What’s wrong with lunch?”
She says, “Lunch is good...if you’re in third grade with a baloney sandwich and a juice box.” Her voice raises several octaves. (Reminiscent of the days when my room was a mess.) “Don’t I deserve dinner? Do you know how hard it is to look good in broad daylight? Besides, when am I going to wear all my new evening clothes?” I hear tissues fluffing out.
I try, “Why don’t you tell him how you feel?”
She whines, “If I complain, he may stop seeing me. He hasn’t even seen the green skirt with the pink sweater yet! No, I’m not saying a word until I’ve worn all my good outfits.”
I say, “But mom, he’s 72, how many more outfits do you think he has left? I would give it just two more pant suits and a dress and then I think you should speak your mind.”
I now find myself worrying constantly about my mother’s happiness with this man. Am I advising her correctly? What if this guy doesn’t like her hand bag one day and he breaks off their relationship? What if there’s another woman he takes to dinner, after taking Mom to lunch? And who’s he seeing for breakfast? Furthermore, what if this popcorn-munching-no-hand-holding maneuver is an indication that he’s really a cold fish? And more importantly,, what if Mom gets thinner than me?
This is all too much. I think I’m the one who’ll need counseling soon. I, too, am becoming an insecure neurotic wreck. Oh, well. My mother, myself.