Squeeze and Release

This is REAL mid-life discussion here. Only certain subjects are off limits at my discrimination. Irritable Bowel Syndrome doesn't discriminate. If it can happen to me, it can happen to you. I thought it was important to give this condition a face. Kind of like Jamie Lee Curtis gives constipation a name and a solution with Activia.

As you reach your 40's, it's either nothing for days and then like a bullet from a gun.....you are it's next innocent victim. Many a time I've been out shopping, looking at something beautiful when all of a sudden I have to flex my glutes to stop an accident from happening. I should have the firmest butt cheeks in town as much as I've had to "squeeze and release" with that Denise Austin voice screaming in my head.

IBS doesn't keep me from doing the things I love. I'm sure, like me, you have stood there in your favorite store when all of a sudden you become interested in everything on the entire shelf .......frozen stiff. If you dare, you make an ever so slight step to the side to look at more "stuff" that you're really not interested in. But just in case the security camera is focusing in on you, you pick up another item, examining it (the price alone can sometimes make you lose your bowels right here) while breathing in and squeezing. Then you put it back. And you pray. Praying that you will make it to the public restroom.........at the other side of the store. "Lord, please let me make it, I will change my wicked ways if you just help me make it." Otherwise, it's, "Lord, if I don't make it, I won't ever be able shop here again."

You shuffle. And squeeze. And shuffle. Only to find you need to obtain the key at the front of the store. At this point, IBS stands for "I've Been Sharting." It can also make you want to lie down in fecal position I mean fetal position.

So, what to do? Try Immodium. If you can't afford the name brand, buy the store brand. I don't leave home without it. If this doesn't work, go to your doctor. Or you can just stay home and make sure to watch Dr. Oz, The Doctor's and Dr. Phil. That's the best advice I can give.

Finding Fifi - My Identity Crisis

Well, it was inevitable. I am the classic storybook textbook case of a lady going through mid-life crisis. I was MIA again but it wasn't in vain. I had the classic identity crisis. If you were visiting and revisiting my blog looking for me, I wasn't here because I was looking for myself.

Because I want to come across as a professional and show you that I'm a graduate of Oprah University, Dr. Phil's College and a PHD in the School of Hard Knocks, I found some symptoms in case you are wondering if you are having an identity crisis, as well. Do any of these symptoms sound familiar? I've added a few notes to help you from my own experiences. You're welcome.

1.Looking into the mirror and you no longer recognize yourself. Seriously. Who is that tired looking, old woman looking back at me? Is that a new wrinkle? Oh, nope. Just toothpaste on the mirror. Whew.
2.Unexplained bouts of depression when doing tasks that used to make you happy. I found this a contradictory symptom. We all know our memory isn't worth a pile of pelican poop. Who can remember what made us happy? I still eat don't I? I'll be depressed when I run out of food.
3.A desire to get into physical shape. This is a serious symptom - not to mention the dangers of putting your body into serious shock, you could hurt yourself. But if Hubby is all of a sudden pumping iron, add a little more butter to your cooking. No reason for him to show you up.
4.Change in allergies. Really? I didn't realize this was an identity issue, but I have found when I eat chocolate my whole butt swells up.
5.Exploring new musical tastes. Just because I can't see the radio stations displayed on the dashboard anymore doesn't mean I'm having an identity crisis. Plus it's great when you want to punish your kids. It's like "time out" with an old-fashioned beat!
6.Thinking about death, wondering about the nature of death. Well, it's usually when I am in my car, alone, and someone has just cut me off. I'm thinking about their death. I know. I'm always thinking of others.
7.Excessively buying new clothes and taking more time to look good. Ladies, I know we can't help it that the styles are getting better and better. We are stimulating the economy, it is our duty. If we stimulate the public, too, it's an extra bonus.
8.Hair changes such as new color or style. Have you seen women who never change their hair or style? They look like a combination of a big-haired babe from Footloose meets a zombie from Thriller. Not good. Even an old barn looks better with a coat of paint.
9.A desire to surround yourself with different settings. Some call it an identity crisis, I call it travel. I'd like to surround myself with palm trees about now.
10.Hanging out with a different generation as their energy and ideas stimulate you. In reality, it's just because we are the one with the money and the driver's license.
11.Restarting things, which you dropped 20 years earlier. What about things that are dropping that started 20 years earlier?
12.Leaving family or feeling trapped in current family relationships. It really is too late to put your children up for adoption. I keep child-proofing my home, but they keep coming back.
13.Doing things that surprise everyone as being out of character. So what. I ordered a salad. What's the big deal?

I hope if you are in the midst of looking for yourself that you remember this one thing: Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.

It All Began With a Taco Craving

I'm sorry to leave you hanging. It's true I've been MIA and I left no explanation as to why. This is my story:

I was craving a taco on my lunch break at work one day so I drove to a corner where Pedro sells fresh authentic tacos. As I sat on the folding chair he has under a canvas gazebo I asked him, "Pedro, why did you come to America just to sell tacos?"

Pedro said, "Si, tacos. You like?"

"Yes," I said, "Why come all the way to America to sell tacos?"

"America, si. I like," he answered.

"Didn't you like Mexico?" I ask.

"Si, Mexico. I like."

"So why did you come here?" He smiled and nodded. He didn't understand anything other than taco and how many.

This got me to thinking. What if I tried to immigrate to Mexico. I could do an experiment kind of like the book, "Black Like Me" but "Mexican Like Me" with a language barrier.

I drove to Arizona and left my car in a safe neighborhood, well, actually Wal-mart parking lot, since it's always full. I bought some instant tan spray and went into the handicap stall and disrobed. I sprayed away. I then went to a second hand store and bought some Mexican attire. I got me a couple of water bottles and a box of Twinkies (since they never expire) and headed for the border. It was fairly easy except it was like a fish swimming upstream. I was trying to get into Mexico and I had about fifty people keep pushing me back over and shouting something at me. I just smiled and nodded like Pedro. Finally I said, "Amigos, I want to go back to Mehico. Can som wan give me a poosh over de fence?" I tried my hardest to sound like the Taco Bell Chihauhau. Some one's hands sank into my fat little bottom and over I went.
"Grassy-ass," I thanked them.

So I walked and walked and walked for six hours until I reached a little village. People spoke to me in Spanish, I smiled and nodded and said, "Si." Then I remembered all the Spanish I learned on Sesame Street. "Agua," which is water. They pointed to a pump. I showed them my empty water bottles. They looked at me very strangely. It dawned on me they were wondering why this Mexican woman can't speak Spanish. I wiped the sweat from my brow and noticed my tan was running. "Where's your nearest Wal-mart?" I asked.

The small crowd that had gathered laughed. "Wal-mart, ha, cheaper than Wal-mart."

"Taco, burrito, enchilada, holy frijoles," I showed off all the Spanish I knew in one sentence.

They pointed down the road. "Taqueria." It was like a mirage. A corner store that looked like a lean to. I went in, "Diet coke and uno taco - no - dos tacos." He laughed and said something in Spanish. I gave him a five dollar bill. "Pesos." I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. He wasn't amused. "Pesos." I took a Twinkie out of my backpack, ready for negotiation. "America," he said.

"Si," I answered. "Hotel-olio." I said. Sounded Spanish to me. He looked at me like I was crazy. I put my hands together and laid my cheek on them to signal "sleep." He laughed. He signaled me to follow him. He led me to behind the store until I could view a hammock. Did I just immigrate to Gilligan's Island? Desperate for sleep I laid in the hammock until the sun came up the next morning.

I opened my eyes and there was a small crowd gathered, mostly children. And Policio. "Can you show us your passport?" One of them said. "Sure," I said as I turned to get out of the hammock and it rolled over and I was on the ground.....just like Gilligan's Island. My backpack was gone. No Twinkies. No passport. Thieves.

So I spent some time trying to work my way back through the red tape, working with the American Embassy, trying to prove my identity. It would have been easier to take the same trail came from and illegally entered back into my own country. So I have had no access to a computer to update my blog. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Would You Like Fries With That Gut?

Just in time for Whiney Wednesday. I got a lot of whining to catch up with. Today's topic, things that are sitting on my lap. No, not children, not animals. The excess fat and skin that once held children for nine months - my tummy. How did I not feel this growing to this point? It feels so natural, like it should be there.

I notice it mostly when I'm going to the bathroom, when my abdomen has broken free of the constricting pants that held so much back. Like a prisoner let free and is now sitting on my lap. That's how I measure my waist, whether it is any further down my lap or closer to where it should be.

Little Miss cradled her belly one day and squeezed it all around her belly button and said, "Look, Mommy, I can make a doughnut with my tummy." I said, "Oh, that's nothing, Sweetie. I can make a bundt cake with mine."

It's amazing that the stomach can stretch so far out with pregnancies and then settle somewhere in between that size and your pre-pregnancy waist size. And we blame pregnancies for it. I'm sure all those doughnuts and required trips to McDonald's while the kids are little have nothing to do with it. The food we are forced to eat so we can have a social life while the kids play in the Playplace. I'm starting to think, the bigger the belly, the better parent you are because we sure did take our kids out for burgers a lot. I've got the collection of toys to prove it!

Another way I measure my waist is the suck in factor. Once it gets past a certain point, there's no sucking in that makes any difference. Though you can still feel your muscles contracting underneath all that waist, it does not make you look slimmer. And then there are those parts that you just can't suck in. Like your chest. Your hips. Your chin. So it just leaves me to use my little nest egg to pay for liposuction, so I can have a few more years of vanity.

Shoe Size vs. Finances

"Despite the high cost of living, it remains a popular item." It amazes me how much it really costs just to get by, even by our age, life should be getting a little more comfortable financially. I think back at the beginning of my marriage and it was kind of fun to struggle and work for the things we obtained. Then you throw some kids in there and diapers and clothes that the kids grow out of and then the clothes that I grew out of. I'm glad things are a little more stable now.

It's nice to be able to go on a vacation every once in awhile, be able to buy a pair of shoes even if I don't need them or go to lunch without worrying if you're dipping too far into the bank account if you do. It's only a worry if your lunch changes your pant size again and you have to buy another entire wardrobe - that's when it gets expensive. But wait, it's not Whiney Wednesday, it's Tootin' Tuesday, so I'm supposed to talk about the positive things about being in my middle years.

Financial stability. It's kind of like your shoe size it gets to a certain point and then it doesn't usually change too much. The one thing you can control is how you wear it. Your foot is your income, your shoes are the expenses. Hopefully, by now, we know our necessary bills and know how much is left over at the end of the month for fun. If you try to squeeze too much foot into a smaller shoe - it's gonna be painful. You may think it looks good on you, but why limp around when you don't have to? Even Cinderella likes a little wiggle room.

I would consider myself middle working class. I work not to provide extra luxuries for my family, but to provide health insurance (there's a Whiney Wed. topic) for my family, since Mr. Fifi likes being his own boss. Plus, it keeps me out of mounds of trouble.

For my younger readers, who only look forward to reaching these wonderful mid-life years, things do get better. You don't always have to live paycheck to paycheck. At mid-life, when your feet hurt - everything hurts, so be wise in choosing shoes (expenses). Some are just not worth crippling your feet over.

Did you know the Chinese used to bind their feet so tightly, the women would have broken deformed feet, all because they thought small feet were attractive? That would be equivalent to crying poor - you've got the income, you just don't want to spend it. Like when the doctor's wife says she can't come to your Tupperware party because she can't afford it. Wouldn't you rather hear, "I'd rather bind my feet than go to a Tupperware party"? Wiggle room, ladies, that's what we need. Being cheap gives you a bad reputation, too. No one likes a cheap friend when it's your birthday.

So the important thing is to find your right size. Not too little, not too much but just right.

How to Avoid An Affair Part 2

I posted part one last week and didn't get much feedback, so I wonder if I touched on too sensitive of a subject or if everyone was guilty. Or maybe it's because the weather is warming up and everyone is too busy doing gardening and stuff like that. Yeah, that's it.

I asked Mr. Fifi how he controls his eyes from roving from me. I'm not the most beautiful woman in the world and I have put on some poundage since we've gotten married. But some of the most beautiful women in the world have had men stray so what's the secret? What makes him keep coming home to me?

One good practice when you are in public and you notice a younger, prettier lady, you just whisper to him, "Isn't she cute? Poor thing, Kristie told me all about her. I just wish they could find a cure for her genital herpes. That would suck."

Another hottie on the scene, "Her family is from France and she doesn't believe in shaving her armpits. Imagine that in lingerie, her arms behind her head waiting for you to go in for the kiss. I wonder if all that hair holds in B.O.? You couldn't possibly get deodorant all the way to the skin with all that hair. Oh, wait. They don't use deodorant in France, they just dab on a little eu de toilette."

"Wow, doesn't Bonnie look beautiful, tonight?" you test him.

"Yeah, she must work out, look at those biceps," hubby says, trying not to be overzealous.

"Oh, no, Honey, she has an illness that causes her to lose control of her bowels. She wears one of those discrete Depends. She just can't put on weight no matter how hard she tries."

Pretty soon, he will see beautiful women and an automatic trigger will go off in his mind, "Chlamydia. Diarrhea. Crooked nipples. Halitosis. Bulimia."

So my husband doesn't have a problem looking at other women for that reason. I'd like to believe it's because he thinks I'm the most beautiful woman in the world. I guess when you surpass a certain amount of beauty, it's really bad. I feel sorry for all those models and actresses who have to drug themselves up to cope with all the downfalls of being beautiful.

And, my sweet friends, we know that beauty comes from within. You know how I compared husbands like the best shirt you ever bought? I compare us with the best trophy that he earned. This is why: It is true he may had a few opportunities of marrying someone else. But YOU are the one who won his heart. There is something special about you and me. We are the ones who would put up with his flatulence, spitting out the car window and never getting to our "Honey Do" list. But don't get me wrong - we are not suckers - we are trophy wives. We are the one who he is proud to take to the company barbecue.

Behind every good man is a woman on Prozac good woman. We need to find little things to compliment our man on. We have to make him feel needed and sometimes be a damsel in distress so he can prove to be our knight in shining armour. When he finally hangs that picture you bought seven months ago - go make him his favorite pie and tell him what a good job he did. This will help his self-esteem for weeks. It's doing little things like that that keep a man.

Another good thing to do is ask to feel his biceps. "Wowee, Honey. You just keep getting stronger and stronger. You're my Hercules, Baby." They just eat that stuff up. That's a good time to ask him to put his good muscles to use and put in that shelf you've been wanting.

So, we're all about getting through this mid-life madness together. Do you have any other ideas on keeping your man?

How to Avoid an Affair Part 1

Another symptom of a mid-life crisis is.......having an affair. Do I really want to touch that subject? Okay, I will.

It's no secret, that even though I'm past my prime I still make an effort to pretty myself up every day, and I still look pretty good, in a matronly way. I still have men look at me and throw themselves at me. It's usually when I'm walking downtown and wearing my high heels and carrying my Prada bag and they usually ask me for money. "Any spare change, Miss?" Anyone who still considers me a Miss deserves a quarter!

Because I'm a wealth of knowledge and because I've watched Oprah for a long time now, and even some documentaries, I am aware that some people stray. We can't keep our husbands on leashes all the time or vise versa.

It's not uncommon to feel a little something for other people, like Matthew McConaughey, or even an old college boyfriend. I have gone down that path thinking about my high school boyfriend, one in particular and think of his luscious big lips and how they used to feel on mine. His lips have come in handy for climbing the corporate ladder because he's had to kiss a lot of butts with them. Or that's what I hear.

The thing about waking up to the same person morning after morning is they become your safe place. I think we start to take them for granted, like they'll always be there. But like a gorgeous shirt you find on sale and decide to shop around - POOF! It might not be there when you go back. Think of your hubby as your favorite shirt ever, the biggest and best investment you ever got and even when it looks a little worn, it still looks great on you (not that way, pervs!). Surely, I had many, many opportunities but my hubby is my Pierre Cardin, the one that never goes out of style.

One way to avoid having an affair is to keep your relationship alive. You gotta take your favorite shirt out of the closet and take him into town once in awhile. You gotta give him a chance to show off his social skills that you meticulously molded. You tell him to behave himself and not say anything embarrassing and you keep that spark in your marriage. You have to try to remember why you fell in love with him in the first place. And if he doesn't abide by those rules you threaten to take him shopping next time. Because you deserve it. We deserve it, ladies. We deserve fine investments and a happy life.

Another way to avoid having an affair is to not feed your thoughts when your mind wanders to that place. I mean, if your consciously thinking about another guy that's a sign that your heart is wandering, too. But if you're dreaming about him, it's not your fault and there's nothing you can do about it. But consciously.....try a little distraction. Vacuum the floor, clean a toilet, eat another cookie, stick your finger in an electrical outlet, whatever it takes to stop thinking about Matthew McConaughey or who ever.

Another thing - remember that "that other guy" probably farts, lifts his legs so you can vacuum under him, spits out the car window and blows his nose in the shower, too.