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.

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.

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.

Old Friends

One wonderful thing that can be said for being our age is we've weeded through a lot of friends and acquaintances and recognize the difference. It's been a hurtful process, but really worth it.

My oldest friend is one that I've had since about fifth grade, which is pretty good considering my family moved around a lot. I'm the type of person that will be your friend forever as long as you reciprocate. (Remember the pencil and ink thing?) It took me a long time to figure out it was a waste of time to invest in one way friendships. I also learned not to take it personally. I did in my younger years but some people just don't prioritize socializing with friends. It's the few good friends, who are like treasures that make it worth it. It's worth it when you find friends who also find friends important. Here's a few thoughts on old friends that I got from a book with my updating:

• Old friends know just when to call (or text).
• Old friends don't need an excuse to drop by. (And sorry my house is a mess.)
• Old friends can be trusted with secrets. (Because they can't remember them anyway.)
• Old friends know what you're thinking even before you speak. (Can they hear the crickets chirping in my head, too?)
• Old friends aren't jealous of your successes or pleased with your failures. (This means they tolerate us.)
• Old friends don't have to ask, "What can I do to help?" They just know. (So don't be surprised when you keep receiving Preparation H Suppositories as gifts.)
• When disagreements arise, old friends don't have to be right. (Most of the time they aren't, but just let them believe what they want.)
• Old friends are like antiques, the longer you have them, the more valuable they are. (And no matter how tacky they are, we keep them because they are special to us.)
• Real friends are those who when you make a fool out of yourself, don't feel you've done a permanent job. (Amen.)
• Robert Louis Stevenson, "A friend is a gift you give yourself." (We don't treat ourselves very often, so when we do, let's make it good!)

Most of my followers I have never met but I want to let you know "It is by chance we met and by choice we became friends." Thanks for your friendship!

Spare Tire Anyone?

The other day I got a HUGE compliment. I told someone about my blog and he said, "You know, back in the earlier days women that were too skinny were never asked on dates. The look of voluptuous, curvier women was what was desired. I look at women like you and I think you're gorgeous." I thanked him profusely. I don't get too many compliments like that from the opposite sex for one, and for being curvy for another.

I would classify myself as being a little more than curvy, but I'll take it. I look at some people on TV and even in real life that train physically for hours a day and they have very litte body fat. Some look like they've survived the Holocaust. Not that I find that humorous, but those people were suffering. Why do some people suffer on purpose?

I like a little meat on people, too, I've decided. I mean, why have a six pack when you can have a two liter bottle? People who work hard to look chiseled proove two things: 1. They are very disciplined. 2. They are freaks of nature.

I think it's important to have a bit of fat stored on your body in case of disaster. I could survive for a few weeks I think. Those stick figures would start wasting away before our eyes. So, in defense of a little chub, no one likes to get stuck without a spare tire in an emergency. We need to be prepared.

Things Close to My Heart

The other day when I was taking a shower I dropped the soap. I bent over to pick it up and all of a sudden I had this shooting pain go right through my shoulder and neck and right down my shoulder blade. Then I realized I was stepping on my boob.

I've decided you have to be careful what you pray for when you're a teenager. I remember being a size zero at age 14 (it's very vague, but I can remember) and my little size A cup bra. My cousin and I would see older teenage girls who were a little more filled out and we wished. Oh, how we wished. My cousin actually got a breast augmentation, which means she had some boob implants for those who aren't familiar with the medical term for hot tatas.

After nursing three kids and a husband my dreams finally came true. But wait, this was the dream that is out of control, kinda like the Willy Wonka girl that kept growing and growing. It gets to a point where they're not hot anymore.....in fact I'm afraid when I hug a small child that somehow they will disappear. How many children on milk cartons are actually lost in a granny's bosoms somewhere?

A friend of mine worked as a nurse in an old folks home and had to help an elderly lady who was very overweight shower. Her family would smuggle in food for her and she would hide things under her breasts. A couple of these items consist of a Twinkie and a sandwich. I thought maybe she invented paninis. Now I wonder if I will be just like that lady, lift up the old saggin' mammaries and behold - a warm four course meal and a piece of cheesecake that resembles a crepe.

Define Undefined

One feeling a person having a mid-life crisis may have is wanting to search for an undefined dream or goal. This leaves me a little confused as to how you can search for an undefined dream or goal.

I'm wondering if it's that feeling like a toddler gets like, "I don't know what I want but I want it now." I guess I'm experiencing that right now another symptom I can check off. I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I was actually hoping to not grow up but since I have to....I guess this is how crazy old ladies are made.

I don't have any college behind me. I have a friend who is about 50 and she is going to college to become a Physicians Assistant. They wouldn't give her any college credit from when she was young and she was so disappointed because she was close to finishing when she got married. I think that's a little unfair to not get credit for college you completed when you were young. That's when our memories were at their peak. I can remember stuff from my early twenties. It's what I did yesterday that I can't remember.

I finally decided I would get some schooling in and try and sharpen my senses. I hope to start in the next couple of weeks. From what I heard I probably won't be the oldest person there. It's just when I was young, I was an aspiring rich housewife. Well, like a rock star wannabe, I finally decided I should probably have a back up plan. Though I was a housewife and doing okay, I haven't been the "rich" housewife. What's the use of staying at home if you can't afford to go to lunch and shop all day?

I was really hoping to be at a more comfortable place financially at my age. And I guess we are. We upgraded neighborhoods a couple of years ago and plan on dying in this house unless we decide to move to Phoenix when we retire. There are a lot of people our age in this neighborhood, so it's perfect. Our whole neighborhood will be dropping like flies at the same time. Maybe we can get a group rate for the funeral costs.

Anyway, back to dreams and goals and being undefined. It's not that I've never had any, there's just so many to choose from. But I guess it's kind of like marriage, you eventually have to choose just one. And then you gotta get pretty good at it, knowing all the idiosyncracies to make it work and be successful. Nothing like investing time into a career to only find out it picks his nose and has flatulence.

Diet is a Four Letter Word

I was always thin growing up and I used to wonder what it felt like to be fat. Well, now I know. I wondered what fat felt like, if it was spongy or firm or gelatin like. If you're skinny reading this - the answer is yes.

My husband likes to give my butt a smack while walking past me sometimes and I usually flip my lid. It's not cute. I'm left there jiggling for three minutes. I know you think I could just exercise and lose some of this excess weight. I think, I could always go on walk, but I think there is just too much bouncing for my neighbors to see. I could get hurt if I jogged - not only from the excess weight on my knees and ankles, but I would end up with black eyes. And maybe some innocent bystander could get hurt from a stray boob bouncing. It's not pretty.

So I thought the best way to control my weight would be my diet. I'm starting a new diet tomorrow. I thought maybe the cheesecake diet. It could work - I'm lactose intolerant and I thought it wouldn't stay in my body long enough to absorb any calories. You know that cartoon that says, "If I put a crouton on my sundae can I call it a salad?" I made my famous cheesecake (last week's recipe) and put some "All Bran" in the crust because I ran out of Graham Crackers so it would be a little healthier. I've been like the human whoopie cushion all day. I wouldn't recommend it.

Because I'm starting my diet tomorrow, I've stored some cheesecake on my butt for reserves. I don't want to feel deprived. I've also stored some in my chest and stomach. Some people have tight abs that you can actually see the muscles under the skin. They call that a six pack. Well, that's nothing. I actually have a two liter bottle. Ha! A six pack!

Body, Don't Fail Me Now. Excuse Me.

So last week I promised a story of a time I embarrassed my teen. Well, you know, one of the many times I've embarrassed them.

So, when my daughter, Fashionista, was in about eighth grade there was this commercial that was running....and running....and running. It starts with a scene of a girls' slumber party with some young teens and they're having a pillow fight and jumping around dancing and then HORROR! The mother comes into the room and thinks she's going to pull the "Cool Mom" card and she starts doing a cool dance from her time - THE ROBOT! The girls just look at her like "Oh my gosh! What are you doing?" Then the phrase was, "Wanna try something new?" And I can't remember what it was advertising.

So my daughter was having a slumber party and there were about 7-8 girls there standing in my kitchen and one of them say, "Well, what should we do now?"

Another one answers, "We can go downstairs and dance."

And I add, "And I could be like that mom on the commercial and start dancing" and I did a couple of robot moves and it was then that it happened. My body betrayed me. I did an audible explosion between my legs and they all heard it. They looked at me like I was a freak and a couple giggled. My own daugter says from the side of her mouth, "Mom. I can't believe you just farted in front of my friends."

"I didn't mean to. Wait until you get to be my age," I reply in my defense. "But you guys might want to move that way" as I flap my hands away from me. Then they laughed. If only they knew the truth about teenage boys. I was just breaking wind, I mean breaking them in - slowly.

"Mother" - Another Word For %!#@&

I've been on the search of good blog reading. I have found it very difficult to find very many that don't involve potty training. Don't get me wrong, they are cute blogs and stuff, but I do like to play with children my own age, too. There are a lot of "Mommy Blog" networks out there. It's like the word "mommy" has taken over who we are.

Don't misinterpret what I'm saying, being a mom is a very huge part of our lives. Some women don't get that chance and we that are should consider ourselves lucky. It's not as easy as 1+1=3 all the time. It's 1+1+X+Y+another X + Dr. + OBGYN ÷ $ sometimes = 0, 3 or 8. And some women just never wanted the whole "alien growing within" experience.

Fifi has three children. Those who know me know I have a ba-jillion stories about each one of them. Being a mom has definitely been the most worn hat. It's been my favorite hat stained in my children's slobber, baby vomit, fecal matter, urine, blood, dirt, cake, homework, tears and the only way to keep those stains under control is with continuing love smoothed on it. There's nothing like the mommy hat.

There comes a point when it is so ragged and you don't really want to wear it in public and sometimes you have to anyway. It's part of who you are. There comes a time it embarrasses your children when you wear it. That's when finally Motherhood pays off!

Mom: "Remember that tantrum you threw in the mall and EVERYONE looked at us?"

17 Year Old: "C'mon, Mom. I said I was sorry a million times."

Mom shouting: "I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE LOOKING AT STUPID JEANS!!!! I WANNA GO HOME!!!"

17 YO whispering firmly: "Mom, stop it! People are looking at you."

Mom shouting: "I DON'T CARE! I'M SICK OF LOOKING AT STUFF! I WANNA GO HOME."

17 YO walks away like she doesn't know her own mother. Mom follows making gurgling sounds with the mucus that has formed in the back of her throat, snorting, sniffling.

So worth the stretch marks at this point. Then there was that time I accidentally farted in front of all her friends. I'll save that for next Monday.

I think motherhood is very much like breeding dogs. I've never bred dogs, though I seriously refer to my children as puppies. They say that when you have a female dog (AKA bitch) and she has a litter of puppies, it makes her a better bitch. Some women are the same way. It's only after they have a puppy or five they become a better bitch. They can't be so wrapped up in themselves and learn to attend to other needs. I've heard many a time "she just needs to have children." C'mon, you've heard it, too. Now you know why that makes sense.

Even though like dogs, we are left with sagging breasts forever, the pups move on, gain some independence and we have to go back to remembering who we were. That's why we have this identity crisis thing happening.

Back to good blogs - if you know of any good blogs that don't trigger the smell of a dirty diaper in my head, please refer it. I need to put a blog roll on my sidebar and would love other women who are also going through mid-life (or close enough) and even men, if they aren't scared off from female dogs.

Can I Help You to Your Car, Ma'am?

When you look at yourself in the mirror day after day you don't notice the subtle changes that happen to you. You know, you change your hairstyle so you can keep up with the times, change your make-up a little to hide a few wrinkles because they quit making your favorite kind, and you don't really notice those few, tiny extra pounds that have added another chin some maturity.

So when I went to the grocery store, paid for my groceries and the checker asked me if I would like help out with my bags, I was in shock.

1. I'm not old.
2. I'm obviously not frail.
3. I was twice the bagger's age - she was probably 16.
4. I was actually more than twice her age, but not by much.
5. The bagger probably weighed 85 pounds.
6. I was not double her weight - just had to make that point.
7. I could have carried her to my car.
8. I didn't need help to my car, but if someone could carry them inside my house and help me put them away, I would be much obliged.

I mean really, ladies. Why would a store hire a waif to help people to their cars with groceries? Isn't that a worker's comp claim waiting to happen? Like she could pick up my sack of potatoes and never be seen again.

Then, just last week I bought a lot of groceries on sale, lots of canned foods, things for my food storage attempt in case of a disaster and when they asked me if I needed help to my car I said yes. This was the first time ever I said yes. So the cute little guy that looked kinda like David Archuleta loaded my mini-van up with bulk food galore. I reached into my purse and grabbed a couple of dollars and stuck my hand out to give to him. Well, usually when someone makes that gesture the other person holds their hand out to receive, right? He looked at me really weird and asked, "What's that for?"

Am I from another planet?! It's money and I'm trying to give it to him. "Your tip for helping me with my groceries," I informed him.

"Oh, no. That's okay," he says and looks at me like I have the plague. "I think they only do that on Base. I don't think we're allowed to take it, anyway."

Now, back in the "old-fashioned days" we tipped. Well, I never tipped because I never needed anyone to help me to my car before I got middle-aged. But my mom always tipped the bag boy. Well, now that I know I don't have to tip I just may start having 85 pound little girls help me load my car.

Who Am I?

And we thought "identity crisis" only happened when we were teenagers! I can tell you exactly who I am. I am a text book. Really. As a baby, I hit all my milestones right on target. As I was growing up, hitting puberty, menstruating every 28 days - text book. When I had my babies, everything was text book except they had to use the "vacuum extraction" with my Golden Child. But it went according to the book.




Now I'm experiencing mid-life crisis and everything is by the freakin' book. I was hoping that I was a little above all that stupidity. I've experienced almost every. single. symptom. Including questioning who I am. See if you can relate to any of these.

1. I am a mother. I think I'm a pretty good mother, too. My kids are fed - I feed them almost every day. I send them off to school. I offer lots of bright colored toys to stimulate them. I have a son (Genius) who is nineteen, a daughter (Golden Child) who is seventeen and another daughter (Little Miss) that is in fourth grade. I didn't make these kids by myself which brings me to the next point:


2. I am a wife. I married a wonderful man. I've been lucky enough to stay home and clean house, change diapers, do laundry, cook gourmet dinners and look like the perfect family.


3. I'm an employee. I had to go to work full time because hubs decided he wanted to be his own boss.


4. I'm a friend.


5. I'm a sister.


6. I'm a daughter.


7. I'm a neighbor.


8. I'm a client.


9. I'm a patron.


10. I'm a little bit Rock-n-Roll, but not a little bit country. Maybe a teensy bit.


11. I'm a cousin.


12. I'm an aunt.


13. I'm an in-law, but not an outlaw.


14. I'm a member.


15. I'm so undisciplined.


16. I'm a lady.


17. I'm a statistic.


18. I'm a fan.


19. I'm a smart ___ (cookie)


20. I'm a chocoholic. Is there a problem?

I'm sure I could think of other things I am. I could have a list of things I'm not. I won't even try to rate myself on those things I am. Sometimes it's hard to be good at everything all at once. I get overwhelmed with so many hats to wear. I find one hat at a time is about all I can handle. Sometimes wearing one of the hats above for too long affects how another one will fit. You know what I mean - you wear the mom hat all day long and then Hubs wants you to wear the wife hat and you're too tired to put it on.

Or you wear the employee hat all day and you're too tired to wear any other hat than the chocoholic hat. This is a picture of a chocoholics hat. I should have taken her picture with it on.

I guess that should remind us to have fun wearing them, no matter what hat you wear.

Mid-Life Monday

Welcome to Mid-Life Monday. These words are somewhat synonomous because we dread them both. Now let's just go back to bed.

I could also title this special occasion as "What else is going to fall apart?" Besides my body, marriage and mental state, that is. But besides that I'm fine.

So, are you sensing the passing of your youth? I sure the crap am. I look in the mirror and wonder who that matronly figure is looking back at me. I pray that I don't run into any old boyfriends as I leave the house. They wouldn't recognize me anymore anyway, so I don't know why I even worry about it.

I was pulled over by a police officer the other day and he asked to see my driver's license. He studied it and looked at me over his sun glasses, glanced down at my license again looked at me. "This says you weigh 140 lbs." So now I'm thinking he's going to book me for providing false information.

"Well, I weighed close to that at the time," I said while clearing my throat and glancing down and to the left, which in body language means you've just told a lie.

He looked up at me and said, "Do you have red hair?"

"Well, Officer, they wouldn't let me put optional, and I tried a new haircolor that week." I could feel myself shrinking.

"Looks like you have a birthday coming up."

"Yeah," I uttered. He didn't question my year of birth.

"Where are you headed?"

"To Hell, obviously." Well, I wanted to say that but I didn't. Or maybe I should have said, "I'm just trying to avoid going over the hill." I actually said, "Well, I need to get to where I'm going real fast before I forget where I'm going."

He let me off but the thing that really upset me is he said, "Have a nice day, ma'am." Aren't old ladies called ma'am?