I Put the "Pause" in Menopause...

You know, it's been years since my mother has felt the need to use my age as an explanation for my odd habits or behaviors until recently- I'm rapidly approaching the menopause years and have begun to exhibit some bizarre activity that she likes to excuse with "she's just getting in that age". That was a phrase I hadn't heard since the snotty teenager years, which of course, are now nothing more than a fond big-haired memory.
My husband does the best he can trying to understand and empathize with the world women live in, especially the woman he lives with, but he's struggling lately due to the simple fact that sharing a bed with me has become a nightmare. It begins with the extra blanket. When I go to bed, I'm cold and need an extra blanket- he does not. He says nothing however because he knows where the extra blanket will lead. Approximately two hours after I fall asleep, the extra blanket turns into some kind of fuzzy oven that is smothering me in my sleep. I wake to wrestle out from under the damn thing, soaked to the bone in my own hormone induced sweat. After I manage to struggle out from under the covers to get some air, he affectionately snuggles up next to me and puts his arm around me.
"Get away from me! You're gonna make me sweat to death!" I shriek in the darkness.
He bounces to his own side of our king size bed. This reaction is a far cry from nearly 9 years ago when we slept cuddled up next to each other all night in a full size bed and nobody complained. He now understands why it's menopause. It causes men to stop and pause pretty much before doing anything in the presence of their wives in the event that she's having a "moment". That's code for violent and hostile mood swings where even the cat somehow manages to be the most annoying creature on the planet simply because I can hear him breathing. Convinced that the animal is going out of his way to breathe as loudly as possible, I shove him off the bed muttering profanity while trying to find a non-sweaty spot on my pillow. Back to sleep it is- for maybe an hour or two...
Anywhere between 3:30 and 4:30am, I'm up for the day. This time, I'm cold and looking for that extra blanket in the dark. So not to disturb the sleeping husband, I rummage through the drawer for my iPad since I'm not sleeping anyway and nobody thinks it's funny when I vacuum at 4am.
Suddenly, from the other side of the king size bed, I hear "What's that light?."
My hormone induced and sleep deprived self responds with "It's the Bat Signal..."
Silence from the other side of the king size bed. I know he's contemplating whether or not it will be worth it to toss out a witty comeback in the middle of the night, or maybe because it's the middle of the night, he can't think of one. So, I say "Is it bothering you?"
Here's the part where he's really struggling. If he says no, he's lying. Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night to inquire about the very issue that woke them in the first place if it's only to satisfy their curiousity. But, if he says yes, well, that's when the menopause flares up. There's about a 50/50 chance that his loving, beautiful wife will turn into the troll who lives under the bridge if he says he's bothered by the glow of the iPad.
Deep sigh, rolls over. I continue with my quest to complete 25 crossword puzzles before the alarm goes off. The alarm is my signal to go back to sleep for a few hours so the day isn't a total loss. I nod off just as my husband is getting up for work...and then a click in the hallway followed by a blinding beam of light.
From the bedroom I holler into the hallway, "What the hell are you doing? I'm trying to sleep...turn off that light."
Deep sigh once again and "Sorry Hon, go back to sleep".

I Put the "Pause" in Menopause...

You know, it's been years since my mother has felt the need to use my age as an explanation for my odd habits or behaviors until recently- I'm rapidly approaching the menopause years and have begun to exhibit some bizarre activity that she likes to excuse with "she's just getting in that age". That was a phrase I hadn't heard since the snotty teenager years, which of course, are now nothing more than a fond big-haired memory.
My husband does the best he can trying to understand and empathize with the world women live in, especially the woman he lives with, but he's struggling lately due to the simple fact that sharing a bed with me has become a nightmare. It begins with the extra blanket. When I go to bed, I'm cold and need an extra blanket- he does not. He says nothing however because he knows where the extra blanket will lead. Approximately two hours after I fall asleep, the extra blanket turns into some kind of fuzzy oven that is smothering me in my sleep. I wake to wrestle out from under the damn thing, soaked to the bone in my own hormone induced sweat. After I manage to struggle out from under the covers to get some air, he affectionately snuggles up next to me and puts his arm around me.
"Get away from me! You're gonna make me sweat to death!" I shriek in the darkness.
He bounces to his own side of our king size bed. This reaction is a far cry from nearly 9 years ago when we slept cuddled up next to each other all night in a full size bed and nobody complained. He now understands why it's menopause. It causes men to stop and pause pretty much before doing anything in the presence of their wives in the event that she's having a "moment". That's code for violent and hostile mood swings where even the cat somehow manages to be the most annoying creature on the planet simply because I can hear him breathing. Convinced that the animal is going out of his way to breathe as loudly as possible, I shove him off the bed muttering profanity while trying to find a non-sweaty spot on my pillow. Back to sleep it is- for maybe an hour or two...
Anywhere between 3:30 and 4:30am, I'm up for the day. This time, I'm cold and looking for that extra blanket in the dark. So not to disturb the sleeping husband, I rummage through the drawer for my iPad since I'm not sleeping anyway and nobody thinks it's funny when I vacuum at 4am.
Suddenly, from the other side of the king size bed, I hear "What's that light?."
My hormone induced and sleep deprived self responds with "It's the Bat Signal..."
Silence from the other side of the king size bed. I know he's contemplating whether or not it will be worth it to toss out a witty comeback in the middle of the night, or maybe because it's the middle of the night, he can't think of one. So, I say "Is it bothering you?"
Here's the part where he's really struggling. If he says no, he's lying. Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night to inquire about the very issue that woke them in the first place if it's only to satisfy their curiousity. But, if he says yes, well, that's when the menopause flares up. There's about a 50/50 chance that his loving, beautiful wife will turn into the troll who lives under the bridge if he says he's bothered by the glow of the iPad.
Deep sigh, rolls over. I continue with my quest to complete 25 crossword puzzles before the alarm goes off. The alarm is my signal to go back to sleep for a few hours so the day isn't a total loss. I nod off just as my husband is getting up for work...and then a click in the hallway followed by a blinding beam of light.
From the bedroom I holler into the hallway, "What the hell are you doing? I'm trying to sleep...turn off that light."
Deep sigh once again and "Sorry Hon, go back to sleep".

Forty is Not Funny! : The Hat Trick Years...

Forty is Not Funny! : The Hat Trick Years...: It's never been up for debate what happened to my 20's. My 30's however seemed to blow by like a storm that ran out of rain. It ...

The Hat Trick Years...

It's never been up for debate what happened to my 20's. My 30's however seemed to blow by like a storm that ran out of rain. It was hockey that sucked up my 30's. Early morning practices, late night practices...illness, injury, success and failure and sometimes it was all in the same day! We put in 10 years of hot dogs and creepy hotel rooms, pot lucks and practices, and if I ever drink coffee from a styrofoam cup again, it will be too soon. As we wrapped up our final season as youth hockey players, I've spent the day reflecting on what that means besides how remarkable it is that my son is 10 years older and I somehow have managed to hold on to my youthful appearance. Must be the cold air of the arena and the popcorn oil hanging in the air. Is there some kind of wisdom I can leave behind as a hockey mom legacy before we take the next leap into high school hockey you ask? Why yes my friends, there is...let's begin.
Five miles becomes an incredibly long drive with either or both of the following scenarios: the bag has to ride in the vehicle and not in the trunk, box of pick up, strapped to roof rack or stuck to the grill like dead animal it smells like. This is a very bad situation. That bag and its owner smell like something evil. Some say it's the gloves while others will argue that the skates, a wet towel and 3 months worth the dirty clothes are more likely the culprit. In any case, the bag makes a porta potty on the last day of the county fair smell like a perfume counter compared to that foul bag. It's not quite sweat or rot- it's sort of like freezer burned zombie apocalypse. When you've got a handful of bad choices, you still have to pick one so I will open a window taking a chance that the side of my face is going to freeze and fall off from the -30 degree air coming in just to get rid of the bag stench I'm choking on. Some of the new hockey moms might be worried about weight gain from all the concession stand food and eating out...have no fear- the older your kid gets, the more difficult it becomes to eat in a vehicle with them after practice or a game. The smell of filth will overwhelm you. Weightwatchers should bottle that s@!t and sell it! Next to riding home with the bag in the vehicle is the bad game day. If we lose or he has a bad game, the ride home is quieter than a graveyard. I've tried constructive criticism, motivational speaking and changing the subject. The most advised method to survive this ride is to simply not talk even if you're about to choke to death on sentences like "well, you tried hard" or "I didn't think you played bad at all" They know. They know when they have played poorly, they know why they lost. Your status as amateur ESPN commentator is likely to get you a deep sigh and an eye roll. Nothing makes 5 miles feel like years more than a poorly timed comment to a kid who just lost the big game. And, there are about 15 big games a year- and men say women are attracted to shiny things while 30 guys come together in subzero weather to fight each other over a trophy that isn't even real gold! If there's an award at stake, it's no holds barred. Each and every win will be celebrated and each and every loss will be mourned but not like having a trophy snatched away in the 11th hour.
I've learned that cereal, peanut butter and hard boiled eggs are as necessary as sharpened skates and a nut cup. Let's face it, we aren't going to win any chef's awards for the meals we produce when we have 45 minutes between school and practice. Pretty much anything that can be eaten in the car in 10 minutes or less is a win. I'm also responsible for the death of 1.5 million trees worth of paper plates we've used in my efforts to save time by not having to do the dishes.
Yes, you can wash the equipment. I don't know where this urban legend has come from, but you can in fact wash the hockey equipment and in fact, even the bag to some degree. It helps for the summer while storing what your neighbors may mistake as a body in that hockey bag based solely on the smell.
I've also learned that for every success he celebrates, I celebrate it 1000 times more and for every obstacle and disappointment, I cry a million more tears. I remember it well from the first goal as a Pop to the goal he scored just yesterday as a Bantam. He will remember it too. And he will remember me cheering him on in the stands, threatening to beat down grandpas from Canada, washing out my socks in the sink of a hotel because I didn't bring enough pairs...and every laugh, every tear, every single win, loss or tie. I am a hockey mom.

To Colton on his Graduation Day...

To Colton on his graduation day...if life is an ice cold six pack, you now have 5 bottles to go so drink them down and enjoy the taste of every drop. If you guzzle them down, you'll miss out on the flavor and if you drink them too slowly, they could get warm before you get to finish them. You know I'm totally talking about Root Beer right? Those glass bottles of Root Beer are delicious! I remember when you were born. I was 23 years old and at a bar. Probably on a weeknight because you can do that and still go to work in the morning when you're only 23. Your dad came in briefly and bought everybody in the place a drink and we toasted to you. I was with my boyfriend who later became my husband and then my ex-husband after that. That was 18 years ago and now, you're giving my own teenage son rides to football practice and dropping him off after choir rehearsal. You're graduating today. Where have those years gone? What have I learned and what would I tell my 18 year old self if I could go back in time and whisper in my own ear? What wisdom would I take back from here to my graduation and use to get me through the next 20 or so years? Since I can't change the past, maybe I can help you out a little with the future as you embark on your journey into adulthood...let's begin. Don't wish away your youth. You'll spend your entire adult life wanting it back. Almost everything about being a grown up sucks except for getting to say bad words and being able to drive. I can't even say legally getting to drink in a bar is worth being an adult because the consequences of that are endless. When I look back on my 20 year history with alcohol, there are several occasions when I wish law enforcement would have tossed my drunken butt in jail to protect me from the stupid that I was going to take part in. I was never lucky enough not to remember how I ended up handcuffed to a toilet or walking home in a cheerleading outfit when I was in fact not a cheerleader. Naturally, those days are long over with except for the nightmares. Fall in love a million times but remember two important things: changing your phone number is very inconvenient to a lot of people. (Bear with me, I'm going somewhere with this). And, if you think it is inconvenient for a crazy person to have your phone number, imagine for a moment what it would be like for that same crazy person that you can't even tolerate another text or call from to have a living, breathing human being with? This is very scary so pay attention! Be very careful about choosing the person who will be in your life forever because you share a child. I strongly recommend one of those flip chart variety signs that counts the number of "accident free" days for every 18 to 30 year old. The part about being a grown up sucking will become a harsh reality if you have a kid with a nutcase. Pretty sure I don't have to explain to you what to do to stop that from happening...investigate the one you want to spend the rest of your life with very carefully or the rest of your life can end up feeling like a very, very long time. Get a job you love or at least don't hate to get up to go to...everybody has to work, well, except for me because I'm an unemployed genuis waiting for Ellen DeGeneres or Jimmy Fallon to discover me, but everybody else has to work because you need money to pay for your grown up things. It helps a lot if the job you pick is one that you like. If you find that you dread going to work everyday, find something else to do with your life. Take a lot of electives in college, just to make sure you really know what you want to do. Attend college theater performances and art shows just so you can become well rounded and say that you did. In the grown up world, attending that stuff costs a fortune and that's not the time to figure out you don't like art shows and you think theater is boring. Besides, in college, you'll get to see naked chicks and they call it "art." Live in a dorm for one year so you are more sympathetic to people in refugee camps. Communal living does have it's benefits however such as the occasional member of the opposite sex in the wrong bathroom. And, if you run out of something, there's a 95% chance somebody else has it. Plus, every dorm floor has a least one kid who has an overprotective mother who brings food every weekend- make friends with that kid. Always remember where you came from...your friends, your family, your first job, and your high school. You never know when you might need something or someone from that time no matter how successful you become. Last, make memories you can hold on to like the ones your mom and dad and I have...light years before you were born, when your dad roamed the halls of the very same high school you are roaming today, saying hello and greeting everyone like it was his job,and your mom at community college when your mom sat in front of me in Stackpool's Personal and Community Health class- we were your age and had nothing but the future in front of us and odds are, it didn't go as planned but it still turned out ok. Mike Modano and I never got married like I had hoped..I blame the team moving to Texas for that. Oh yeah, and another thing about being a grown up that doesn't suck- bringing another little person into the world, watching them grow, seeing the best of you in them and letting them out in the world and knowing they're going to be extraordinary. I think I can speak for both of your parents when I say they wouldn't have missed watching you from the first time you walked to walking across that stage tonight, and there's so much more to come...Good Luck Colton.

Forty is Not Funny! : I don't mind getting older...as long as I still lo...

Forty is Not Funny! : I don't mind getting older...as long as I still lo...: Mother Nature is chock full of cruel jokes for girls and women throughout their lives, but my favorite so far is perimenopause. This is the ...

I don't mind getting older...as long as I still look 17.

Mother Nature is chock full of cruel jokes for girls and women throughout their lives, but my favorite so far is perimenopause. This is the pre-game warm up to full blown menopause and can last for many years prior to the Big Show. I started getting night sweats about 3 years ago- not waking up kinda sweaty like when you have a bad dream. This is waking up soaking wet- so wet in fact, that I wasn't sure if I was sweating that badly or if I had pissed myself. Oh yeah, cause if you've had a baby, pissing yourself is also a distinct possibility. Once I was able to determine that I did not piss myself and I had actually sweated myself through a pair of pajamas and bedding, I sought out medical advisement. That's where I was introduced to the term "perimenopause". Here's what I like best- the "peri" in perimenopause is short for period, as in the one you still get while suffering the menopause symtoms of a sloth-like metabolism, mood swings and hot flashes. Yes ladies, it's the best of both worlds- sort of like a teenager trapped in an old lady body. This was the same time that I gained 40 pounds and started getting these tumor-like zits on my chin the size of a dime. When I was a teenager, I got the occasional normal sized pimple now and then but had clear skin for the most part. These suckers come from the depths of hell and have their own pulse and take weeks to months to clear up. I've put everything on them shy of Drano and those mothers will not go down. It always ends the same way- I somehow think that an unsightly swollen red lump under the skin is more offensive than an oozing bloody scab so bathroom surgery it is. I'm an excellent bathroom surgeon- I have at least 4 different sizes of safety pins and tweezers for lancing and squeezing of all varieties of infected looking bump-ish type things. I soak a safety pin in rubbing alcohol and stab the living hell out of that thing and then squeeze it until my eyes water. Within a day or two, it looks like a flesh eating disease, but I'll do the same thing next time. It defies logic that the same body can have super acne and gray hair at the same time. I wish that gigantic zits were the only disturbing thing about my chin. I've reached that age that all of the other women in family have reached before me when the huge single black face hair begins to grow. If you have even one drop of Mediterranean blood in your lineage, you know this hair- it's the one that grew out of your grandmother's mole or out of her chin, and it was 3 inches long and black. As a child, you'd stare at it and wonder how the hell she didn't see that God forsaken thing and just yank it out. Let me tell you why...SHE DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS THERE! Each morning I search my chin and mole below my lip for that hair, and I swear to Jesus, it's not there. I'll be damned if later that night, I'll be washing my face and there it is...mocking me, knowing I had been to 20 places and talked to 100 people who had to have noticed that single 3 inch long black hair growing out of my face- the one that absolutely was not there earlier that day. Where does that thing come from? Does it go into hiding until I leave the house? When I'm not busy growing a beard, I'm focusing on gravity and what I can do to prevent its ill effects. If I am in fact suffering from the role that gravity plays on a woman's body, why don't my feet the size of clown shoes. Gravity seems to have stopped at my butt. I've never heard a woman complain about how fat their toes have gotten since they've turned 40. The biggest disappointment is my boobs. I used to leave Victoria's Secret with hundreds of dollars in bras, underwear, and other unmentionables, but now, I dread it like my dog dreads going to the vet. The last time, the tape measure clad girl asked me what size bra I wore and my response was "36 Long". She said "Excuse me?" So, I said "Uhhhh....D. 36D." She brought me a bunch to try on, and I immediately handed back everything without underwire. Once the girls have begun to "fly under the radar", they need the underwire for support. I used to worry about my boobs exploding out the top of my bra...now, I worry about them falling out the bottom. Underwire is like a belt for your boobs- holds them up! No more bras without a belt! Braless days came to an end after I nursed a child, and a bralette sounds like the name of the bra's little sister. My boobs are all grown up so save "bralette" for girls her own age. At this point, I would like a bra with underwire and please make the straps out of that same material safety straps for skydiving harnesses are made of so the skinny little straps quit making divots in my shoulders. While your doing a redesign, some sort of sweat absorbing fabric to soak up the boob sweat would also be handy so I don't have to keep stuffing my hand down there to sop it up with paper towels. Better yet, how about one with a battery operated fan in it? Each day, it keeps getting worse- too old for the juniors department. Even if the clothes fit, it embarrasses my teenage son when the girls he goes to school with and his mom are wearing the same thing. I can only take solace in knowing that each year gets me closer to a pair of elastic waist denim shorts and a t-shirt with embroidered kittens. At least the button won't dig into my gut...