Author Archives: danamcintyre1

My Mother And the Middle Finger Salute

| | Posted in Children, Cooking, Family, Grandparents, Husband, Marriage, Parenting, Parents, Wife, women | Tagged , , , , , , , ,

My mother, who we call Ninny, is one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. And the funny part about that is that most of the time she doesn’t mean to be funny. It’s completely unintentional – it just happens.

Some people are just funny because of things they do or the timing of when they say things. Ninny is a master of both of those things.

A perfect example of this would be what I call the “Glasses Adjustment” story.

And it goes like this:

My sister Cathy and her husband, Jonathan were at my parent’s house for a cookout, along with me and my husband. Jonathan and Dale have always had great son-in-law/mother-in-law connections with Ninny. They love to mess with her and she is just as quick to dish it back to them.

Jonathan was in the middle of telling us his favorite story about Ninny. She was staying at their house watching the kids while Cathy and Jonathan were out of the country for their anniversary. She was running late to pick the kids up from school but couldn’t find the car keys. She finally found them, jumped in the car, hit the garage door opener, and backed their brand new Mercedes into the garage door.

You see, in her haste she neglected to see that the garage door was already open and when she hit the button, the door closed, resulting in a dented car, damaged garage door, and a deflated Ninny. 2653_57801271098_5312612_n

Jonathan laughed as he told about Ninny having to call them in Italy to tell them about the accident.
We looked across the dining room table at Ninny, who was looking straight at Jonathan. She was giggling but he noticed that she was also adjusting her glasses…with her middle finger.

Jonathan said “GOOD GRIEF, I think that Ninny just shot me the bird!”

More giggling from Ninny.

My husband choked on his sweet tea, while my sister sat there with her mouth open. Jonathan started laughing.

I stared at my mother.

Our Ninny? Sweet Ninny? Did she understand what she was doing? Shooting someone the bird? The middle finger wave? The one finger salute?

And doing it so discretely that no one even noticed?

Not even her???

Until now.

The conversation moved on and we continued eating. Every once in a while someone would giggle.

“Does anyone want dessert?” Ninny asked.

“No, I’m good,” I said. “I’m trying not to eat so many sweets.”

Papa looked over at me. “You’re too thin. You don’t need to watch what you eat. You’re not fat like Ninny………..(enter LONG PAUSE HERE)……….and me.”

Dale ducked under the table in fear of flying dishes.

Cathy again sat there with her mouth hanging open.

Jonathan clapped his hands and laughed a huge belly laugh.

I looked over at my mother.

Who was looking at Papa.

And she was adjusting her glasses.

RUDE!!!

| | Posted in Family, Husband, Manners, South, Southern, Southern Living, wellness | Tagged , , , , , ,

There’s one thing in this world that I absolutely will not tolerate…and that is rude people.

When I say hello to someone, is it really all that difficult to say hello back? If I smile, or say good morning, or just compliment someone, is it too hard to reply?

Or am I just overreacting?

We were leaving a store one afternoon when a gentleman and his wife were also coming out. He held the door for me so I said “Thank you!”

He looked at his wife, smiled, and said to me “That’s what I love about the South. We are from Boston and no one ever says ‘thank you.’”

I told him that generally if I hold the door for someone and they don’t acknowledge me, I will usually say “OH YOU’RE WELCOME!!!” as cheery and loudly as I possibly can. Most of the time they will reply with a very meek, “Oh, thank you.”

Many times they just ignore me.

His wife laughed and said that she did the same. I asked her if her husband got as embarrassed at her as mine does. He said he was worried she’d get in a fist fight some day because someone wasn’t going to take too well to her schooling them.

But sometimes it’s just too much for me to take.

Last night, for example, Dale and I went to Macaroni Grill to pick up some take-out. It was raining so he dropped me off at the front door so I could scoot in and not get too soaked. As I was getting out of the car I noticed a woman on the phone walking towards the restaurant.

As I would normally do, I opened the door and held it for her to come in.

SHE DID NOT EVEN LOOK AT ME. She kept chatting on her cell phone as she came on through the door.
Dale said as he sat in the car and watched her do this and thought to himself, “Oh no you didnnnn’t. You don’t know my wife.”

This particular restaurant has two sets of double doors going into the restaurant, and while I held the door for her on the first set, I did NOT on the second set.

Dale said that since she was gabbing on the phone, she wasn’t paying attention and walked face first into the door.

I, however, didn’t notice.

I was already at the counter telling the cook “thank you” for my meal.

The Mammogram: A Modern Day Torture Device

| | Posted in Doctor, Family, health, Technology, wellness, Wife, women | Tagged , , , , , , ,


I have dreaded my yearly mammogram since I received the prescription from Doogie Howser a few months ago. I look forward to having my boobs squished by a machine about as much as I enjoy going to the gynecologist.

I imagine this same device was used in medieval times. Can’t you see it? You steal a loaf of bread to feed your starving family and you end up with your shirt off in the middle of town square while your girly parts are being crushed and people are throwing rotten tomatoes and wilted lettuce at you? Yep. It’s that kind of torture.

For those of you that have never had the pleasure of having a mammogram, please let me explain. (For you men, every time you see the word “boob,” imagine it says “wiener” and you will get the full effect of this story.)

First, I’m told not to wear lotion or deodorant to my appointment. If you are old enough to be getting a yearly mammogram, then you (like me) could also be going through early menopause. So I’m sweating profusely on and off due to stupid hot flashes but I’m not allowed to wear deodorant. I figure I’m going to smell like a New York cab driver on a hot July afternoon by the time my appointment comes around.

This is starting off well.

I check in and the nurses are so sweet that it’s hard to hate them for what they are about to do to me. Maybe they feel empathy for me because they know what’s about to happen.

I put on the pink hospital gown and cover up with the pale pink robe they provide. I look like I’m about to have a spa treatment…but I AM NOT.

Oh GREAT. The technician is a guy. He doesn’t even bother asking me how I’m doing. The sour look on my face explains it all.

I am led into a dimly lit room. Is this ambiance supposed to help me relax?

Hey what about offering me some Valium? Maybe some wine? Maybe both? Together? I can guarantee that would help more than soft lighting.

He looks at my boobs for any visual deformity. He stares at my left boob for a second longer than normal but quickly looks away.

What the heck?

Poor guy, did he forget that he told me not to wear deodorant? I’m sweating like a whore in church and now he’s probably gagging at my B.O. But he’s a professional and if he’s about to pass out at my smell, he isn’t letting on.

The technician walks me over to the boob torture device. He adjusts what he can onto what appears to be a thick piece of glass. Do you remember Silly Putty from when you were younger? Well, he’s literally STRETCHING my boob so it can be as flat as possible in the machine. I kind of expect to see a Sunday comics cartoon imprint of Charlie Brown on the bottom of my breast when this is over.

Then he LOWERS another thick piece of glass on top, smushing the small amount of skin that I have down to about a ¼ inch pancake. Since mine are so little, it’s more like silver dollar pancakes. It’s pathetic.

I imagine that this is what bacteria feel like when scientists put them on microscope slides and cover them with that little square piece of glass.

So I’m standing there, on my tiptoes, leaning over at a very awkward angle, while my boob is being smashed so thin you can see through it. Now I know this is for my own good, but since they are so small, the second-base that my gynecologist got to at my checkup last month could have easily detected a grain of sand, much less a lump. And I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if I had a lump in there. My bra might have actually fit.

(Now of course I know the importance of mammograms so I’m just trying to give it a little humor and would never skip having one!)

Finally, it’s over.

My boobs are extremely sore and now they’re a little swollen. Woot-woot! I realize that I might be able to fill an A cup for about an hour.

I head home and pour myself a glass of wine since they so rudely didn’t offer any to me at the doctor’s office. I jump in the shower.

I scrub off the horrific B.O. that my underarms have produced all afternoon and suddenly I’m feeling better.

I’m clean. I’m done with my appointment. I can relax.

And as I’m toweling off, I see what the technician was staring at.

Nope. Not a deformity.

But a single gigantic nipple hair that was so long it probably reached out and shook his hand.

I AM MORTIFIED.

That’s it. Next time I’m bringing my own Valium. And I’m going to start taking them today to prepare for next year’s appointment.

Daddy’s Little Girl

| | Posted in Baby, Children, Family, Marriage, Parenting, Parents, Uncategorized, women | Tagged , , , , , , , ,

All of my life my dad has been my hero. He was always there for me growing up and is still here for me now that I’m an adult. The strength and stability I always felt being in my Daddy’s arms can not possibly be measured. He would carry me on his shoulders when my legs were tired. He could do the best cannonball into the pool out of all the dads. When I was in trouble, he could put the fear of God into me with just a look. And when he’d jokingly ask me “What am I going to do with you???,” I’d say, “Just keep me and love me,” which he still does. 4887_94743471098_643154_n

And over the past year, he has fought cancer by having a stem cell transplant and will continue treatments for many years to come. He has always been strong – not only physically, but mentally – he’s a judge as well as retired military. (Yes, my upbringing was a little strict!)

Knowing that the next few years are going to have their ups and downs, there are some things I want him to know to help keep his spirits up. So this is for my Dad…

Dear Daddy,

I want to thank you for being so strict with me when I was a teenager. I used to think you were the meanest dad EVER for giving me a curfew of 10 p.m., but now that I am a parent, I realize that what you always said is true: “Nothing but trouble happens to a teenager after midnight.”

Thank you for letting me be Daddy’s little girl, but also Daddy’s little tomboy. Thank you for making sure I could take ballet and sewing classes, but I’m sure at some point you wished you had a son. I was as close to it as you got. I love going camping and doing everything outdoors because of you. You encouraged me to go outside and play so I never was really interested that much in TV -except for “The Donny Osmond Show” of course.

Thank you for insisting on meeting my (and Cathy’s) boyfriends, and giving them the kind of handshake that could break their hand and letting them know they were in for it if anything happened to me. Thank you for telling me straight off which boyfriends you liked, and which ones you clearly DID NOT. Looking back on several of my dating mistakes, I realize you did know what was best for me after all…if only I had listened!!!

Thank you for teaching me how to drive a stick-shift. Learning how to drive an “H” shift was pretty tough on the old F150, especially since it didn’t have power steering or power brakes, but I think it is something every girl should know how to do.

Thank you for teaching me manners. I have come to realize that “Yes ma’am” and “Yes sir” were not only polite when I was younger, but beneficial to me as an adult. These are traits I have passed on to Matthew as well and he, too, has seen how people react when they are treated with respect. 4887_94991191098_2137511_n

Thank you for loving me enough to give me boundaries. Although I didn’t get in too much trouble (because I was terrified of getting in trouble with you), I know I was not the easiest teenager to bring up. I got your stubbornness so I’m sure you saw some of yourself in me! And even though I never wanted to hear it, I thank you for loving me enough to tell me “NO” some times.

Thank you for teaching me to be financially responsible and hiding my first credit card from me when it came in the mail. You taught me that if I can’t buy it with cash, then I don’t need it. This is a lesson many never learn until later in life. You taught me that just because my friends may have new cars, big houses and go on luxurious trips, they are also probably swimming in debt. Because of you, our only payment each month is for our house, and if we don’t have the cash for other things that we want, then we save up for them.

Thank you for teaching me how to stand up for myself. As a single mom for almost 10 years, I had to handle things that can be foreign to many women, such as getting work done on my car. If you hadn’t taught me how to watch when someone was about to screw me over, I would have probably would have been financially taken advantage of numerous times.

Thank you for showing me what true love is. After 52 years of marriage (and counting!) you and Mama have shown me that marriages have good times and bad times, but you stick with each other and are there for each other no matter what. Watching you reach over and grab Mama’s hand just while driving in the car makes me smile.

Thank you for teaching me to treat everyone with the same respect. The circle of friends you have surrounded yourself with come from every race, gender, and sexual orientation and EACH ONE of those friends considers you to be a very good friend to them. What an amazing example you lead!

Thank you for teaching me right and wrong. Even when Mom got a speeding ticket in a different city, you never even considered contacting the other judge to get it erased. Instead you told her that since she was in fact speeding, that she needed to pay the $250 fine. I respected that so much more than you will ever know. So many others in your position would have “called in a favor” but you didn’t – and I love that about you.

Thank you for trusting me when I announced ‘I’m getting married!!!” only four weeks after meeting Dale. Although I’m sure you ran a background check on him, you still trusted me enough to officiate our wedding ceremony. To this day, that memory makes me smile. And thank you for setting the kind of example a good husband is. When I first met Dale, I was amazed at how many similarities the two of you share and I knew immediately that if he was anything like you, I had a keeper.4887_94743461098_2165253_n

I hope you are proud of me for what I have accomplished in my life. Everything I have in my life, in some way or another points back to you. Your guidance has led me to where I am and who I am today.

And although we know the next couple of years are going to be both good and tough, please know that I plan on taking care of you and Mama as you have ALWAYS taken care of me. Cathy and I will be the strong ones for you this time.

I’m all grown up now, but I am and always will be, Daddy’s little girl.

Let me carry you on my shoulders now.

Things You Should Never Say To Your Wife

| | Posted in Family, Husband, Marriage, Spouse, Wife | Tagged , ,

God has blessed me with an amazing and loving husband. He takes care of me and the kids and makes sure the bills are paid each month. He not only is okay with, but encouraged me to be a stay-at-home mom so that I could also focus on my writing. And most importantly, he loves me with all of his heart.
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But there are, on occasion, times when I want to donkey punch him in the head.

For instance, there was the time when we were getting ready to go out to dinner with my family. I had been taking a new medication that caused me to retain water and put on a few pounds. Plus, I’m sure those Pop-Tarts that I love hadn’t helped.

I know, I know…this is VERY dangerous territory for a man, but here’s how it went down:

Me: Honey, does this look okay? I feel like it’s a little too tight.
Dale: No. It looks fine.
Me: Be honest.
Dale: Well, you do look a little “puffy”.

PUFFY? As in the Marshmallow Man? Who calls their wife puffy?? (I’m sure that many of you men are thinking “Oh, you poor man. You are gonna DIE now.”)

He didn’t get any nookie for at least a week after that one.

Many months later, we were in the midst of an argument when I complained that he didn’t listen to anything I said, to which he replied “That’s not true! I listen to all of the things that you say…(dramatic pause here) that are important.”

HUH?

I don’t care if I’m talking about the lint in the dryer, or the kitchen scrub brush, or the zit on my forehead that looks like a permanent Bindi. It’s ALLLLLLL important, baby.

I got a big bouquet of flowers after that one.

Then, this morning I was sitting at the kitchen table while Dale was eating breakfast. We were going over our “to-do” list for the day.

I mentioned that I needed to go get my driver’s license changed to show our new address since we recently moved. I’ve been sick all week and this was the first chance I’ve had to go to the DMV.

Dale: Are you going to get your picture made today?
Me: I don’t know. They might say I need a new picture.
Dale: Are you sure you want to get a new picture made today?
Me: What? I look crappy in my sweatpants with no makeup, bloodshot eyes, runny nose and the zit on my forehead?

Dale: (Replying quickly) I didn’t say that.

I’m expecting dinner and a movie tonight.

Letters To Banma

| | Posted in Children, Family, Grandparents, health, Uncategorized, women | Tagged , , , , , ,

Every Monday morning after I have gotten my step-son up and ready for school, I sit down at our breakfast bar and get out my nice stationery and pen.

I begin to write.

I write about what went on that particular week. I write about how my son is doing in college and what my step-kids are doing. I write about how cold the weather has gotten and how I can’t wait until spring time so I can plant in my garden. I write about the cold I think I’m getting and I hope I don’t pass it on to my husband. And how I probably should have gotten a flu shot but because I am mentally allergic to needles, I never made the time to get one. I write about the house we just moved into and how I am finally getting everything unpacked.

This letter, I write each week, is to my 93-year-old grandmother, whom we call Banma. Banma, Ninny, and me.

She lives in a little town in Mississippi and since my grandfather passed away in 1987, she has lived by herself. She doesn’t have cable TV so she only gets three channels using the bunny-ears antennas, and usually repeats of Lawrence Welk can be found on at least one of the channels.

She doesn’t own a computer and other than taking care of her dog and working in her vegetable garden during the warm weather, there isn’t much for her to do.

I picture her sweet face each week as she walks the length of her driveway (which is fairly long) to check her mail and when she opens her mailbox, she sees my familiar stationery. The thought of her smiling upon seeing my letter makes me so happy.

I could call her on the phone but since she is getting older, I find myself repeating things over and over, and louder and louder. She gets frustrated because it’s hard for her to hear me and so she ends up saying “Well, isn’t that nice?” to no matter what I’ve said.

I want her to KNOW what’s going on in my and my family’s life, so I write to her.

My mother, Ninny, says that when Banma gets my letters she doesn’t just read them once and put them away. She will leave them out on the coffee table and several times during the week, she will sit down and read them over and over.

Each day we all receive junk mail, report cards, tax information, and of course, bills. How nice does it make you feel when you open your mailbox and get a surprise card from someone? It kind of makes you overlook how stinky the rest of the mail can be.

So the next time you feel like texting someone or just making a quick phone call, consider writing a note or letter to them instead.

Because the day they receive your letter may also be the day they find out they’re going to be audited by the IRS and it may be the only bit of happy coming out of the mailbox that day.

Tom Selleck Called. He Wants His Mustache Back.

| | Posted in Children, Family, Hockey, Parenting, Son, Sports | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


I have been lucky enough to call myself a hockey mom for the past 13 years. My son Matthew started playing when he was five years old. He had gone to the ice skating rink with his dad one Saturday afternoon just to skate around the rink. He had played t-ball and done some karate, but when he saw the players coming out of the locker room in their full gear and skates, he decided he wanted to play hockey. Now he had never seen a hockey game before and wasn’t even tall enough on his skates to look over the top of the goal net, but once his mind was made up, that was it. He was going to be a hockey player.

My hockey mom status started with me being (mostly) quiet during his early years. I became the obnoxious hockey mom during his high school years. Matthew made the Varsity high school team while still in middle school so yayyy – I had an extra year of high school yelling.

Hockey isn’t one of those sports where you sit quietly like you’re watching a chess match. Hockey is rough and tough. People are fighting. People are yelling at the coaches and the referees. People are banging on the glass. People are embarrassing themselves.

Wait. I’m talking about me.

That’s right. I’m the loud mouth hockey mom that all of the other parents avoid like I have leprosy. I’m the one decked out in my team’s colors and sometimes I even have a cowbell. I don’t sit down. I’m usually yelling. I sometimes bang on the glass and yell through the seams of the glass JUST TO BE SURE they heard me. And the other parent’s on the team act like they have never seen me before.

“Who is that?” the other team’s parents ask.

“Never seen her before! She looks a little crazy”, our team parents say.

And this all started when Matthew was in first grade. He’s 19 now, so that’s a lot of time to work on my yelling pitch.

Through the years my reputation grew to being a “lipstick-pitbull” (as Sara Palin called hockey moms). The game would begin and I would start yelling. Another parent would lean over and look down the bleachers and me and say “I wondered when you were going to get here.” hockey mom

Yep. I had arrived. I rarely missed a game. I think in the 13 years I missed less than 15 games.

There were few that my fury would not be directed at. What is the coach thinking? Why is he playing that line instead of the other line? That kid he just put on the ice just got his training wheels off his skates. (No, not really. There aren’t training wheels on ice skates.)

The refs were not exempt. As a matter of fact, they received the brunt of my wise cracks.

“WHAT??? How on earth did you miss that penalty??? He was HIT FROM BEHIND you BONEHEAD! My 93 YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER COULD HAVE SEEN THAT HIT!!!”

Or

“HEY HOPKINS – you must have gone to Collins Hill High School since you’re not making any calls against them. Way to keep your Alma mater winning!!” Incidentally, we were playing Collins Hill that night.

Or even better…

“Hey Linkissy – YOU SUCK at reffing. And by the way – Tom Selleck called from 1986. He wants his humongous mustache back.”

And although I only started yelling at opposing players when my son got to the high school level, they were no less victims. (And don’t worry – what I yelled was G, I mean PG, I mean PG-13 rated.)

There was one guy who always played so dirty – the kind that would take a swing with his stick when the ref wasn’t looking, or checking from behind, or tripping the players with his stick. Penalties that could have caused another player serious injury should have been called and sometimes were. I didn’t like him AT ALL. His hockey pants were so shredded (from what I heard was what he thought was good luck) because he would put his skates on BEFORE his pants, so the blades of his skates would cause tears.

“Hey #81, we can see your pretty lacy panties because your hockey skirt is so ripped.” I would usually get the third finger salute back at me.

That’s right, #81. I just got under your skin. Let’s see how well you play NOW.

And now that my son has graduated and is going to a college that does not have a hockey team, I feel a little sad and melancholy. I miss the smell of the rink after the Zamboni has cut the ice. I miss the chill of the metal bench freezing me to my core.

I miss watching my favorite player and his teammates win two State Championships. Oh how I miss the game.

I ran into another hockey parent at the grocery store recently and I asked how the season was going. I felt a little stab of jealously since her son is still in high school and she is able to continue on with the weekly rituals of being at the rink.

“Yep, the team is playing pretty well” she said sweetly, “but some parents from the other teams were just saying that the games aren’t nearly as entertaining this season without your loud mouth there.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

I’m a legend.

My Gynecologist Appointment With Doogie Howser

| | Posted in Children, Doctor, health, Pregnancy, Uncategorized, women | Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

I went to the gynecologist recently for my yearly checkup. I’m usually a procrastinator in general, but making this appointment is rarely high on my list of priorities. I know that going to the gynecologist is for preventative maintenance, just like making sure you change the oil in your car every 3,000 miles but don’t most people try to make it to 5,000 miles before changing the oil?

Everyone knows it needs to be done, but nobody I know ever wakes up and goes “Yayyyyy! It’s gynecologist appointment day!”

I get to the doctor’s office and sign in, then head over to the waiting room that is currently hosting several pregnant women and now me. I feel like the new kid in school that everyone stares at because she’s different.

After 40 minutes or so (who’s counting?) the nurse calls me back.

We go through the typical steps. She checks my blood pressure. Normal. Pulse? Normal. Then I get on the scales. I drop my purse, jacket, and take off my shoes. I even remove my Pandora bracelet in fear that it will add another few ounces. I let out all the air in my lungs and lightly step on the scales, like it will take a pound or two off the final result.

“Oh, you’ve gained a few pounds since you were here last year.”

Seriously? Does she not realize that I don’t know my pants are tighter this year than last? Do I need the nurse at my gynecologist’s office bringing that to my attention? This appointment is getting off to a bad start.

I’m already in a bad mood lady just because I have to be here. Don’t push it.

I am led into a little room with all kinds of posters on the walls with pictures of vaginas, birth control, babies in the womb, etc. Wow. This is not helping.

The nurse lays out a gown and sheet and I’m told I’m supposed to strip down to my birthday suit and put on the gown.

After a while, my doctor and his nurse come into the room. He’s new to the practice so I have never met him before. He looks like he just graduated from middle school. And he’s so cheerful that it makes me want to slap him. I’m thinking, “Please don’t be this happy while you are looking up my vajayjay because it will make this experience even more uncomfortable.”

He asks me tons of questions.

How many children have I had? Am I married? What do I do for a living?

Sounds like I’m being picked up at a bar. I squeeze my eyes shut. Please stop the small talk and get this show on the road.

He checks my tiny boobies out to make sure there aren’t any lumps in there. My chest is flatter than the table I’m lying on, and all the while he asks me if I have dogs, isn’t the weather nice today, and whether or not I watch football.

What?

I lay back and he does the “other” part of the exam. My knees are like magnets. They instinctively keep closing back together. It is clear that I am not enjoying this experience.

Then he does an ultrasound to see what my baby makers look like. They are 44 years old so they are probably starting to look like shriveled up raisins, but he says that everything looks good.

“Just please don’t see a heartbeat in there”, I say.

“Oh, nothing to worry about. You’re getting up there in age so unless you are trying to get pregnant, you probably won’t.”

W.T.H???

The humiliating part of the exam is over. I can only compare a gynecologist exam to prostate exam. In theory of course, since I don’t have a prostate. You just had someone poking around in your no-no spots and he hasn’t even bought you dinner.

I sit up on the exam table and he asks me more questions.

“How old are you?’

“Just turned 44.”

“Ahh. Are you experiencing hot flashes? Weight gain? Mood swings?”

“Yes. Oh my God, am I dying? What do I have?”

“Oh it’s nothing. You’re probably just experiencing early menopause.”

Early menopause? Seriously? I’m 44! Not 104! Didn’t my grandmother just go through menopause? She’s 93. I’m too young to be going through menopause. Here I was worried he was going to tell me I’m pregnant, and instead he tells me my girly parts are antiquated.

I sit there, stunned, as he goes over other symptoms. These are just some of the fun features of menopause: Hair loss, loss of libido, brittle nails, anxiety, paranoia.

“Oh great”, I think. I’m going to turn into a bitchy, bald, edgy, sweaty, freaked out sex-hater. Sounds like my husband is just going to LOVE the new me.

He asks if I have any more questions. I mumble “no” as I’m still trying to process the fact that he not only insinuated that I’m getting old, but he also just had his hand up my hoo-ha. I sort of feel used.
I could use some chocolate.

And as I’m leaving, Doogie Howser hands me a slip of paper, smiles at me and tells me to have a nice day.

I leave the office and go sit in my car. I look down at the piece of paper.

That little bastard. It’s a prescription for my annual mammogram.

To Eat or Not To Eat

| | Posted in Cooking, Family, Parenting, Step Parenting, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , ,

For years I was not a good cook. Not because I didn’t know HOW to cook, but it was hard because cooking for only two people wasn’t always easy. (I’m REALLY not good at math so dividing recipes was a nightmare. Sorry, Mrs. Wylie, but that math tutoring on fractions you helped me with in high school DID NOT stick with me).

My son, Matthew, was always pretty easy to cook for because all I needed to do for him was boil water for his beloved Ramen noodles. Water is boiling? Dinner’s ready!

My friends from my previous employer all knew of my poor cooking skills. (I have been rumored to burn water and I MAY or MAY NOT have made a grilled cheese once, forgetting to add the cheese). On one company trip, the Vice President came to our condo stating that she had been told I was cooking…with vodka…and she was a little nervous. No need to worry, I told her. Turns out, I was a pro at making jello shots!

When I got remarried I was sort of forced to fine-tune my cooking skills. Now, not only was I going to be cooking for five people, but there were now food allergies being thrown into the mix. My step-son, Austin, has Celiac disease, so he can’t eat anything with gluten. My step-daughter, Bailey, has a nut allergy and also eats only gluten free food, and my husband can’t have MSG.

Oh, the joy of cooking…yeah, right. Not ONE of my new family members can eat Ramen noodles…it’s chock full of gluten and MSG.

Making two to three different meals for one dinner time isn’t easy, so I began to get creative with recipes so that I could make variations of the same meal.

Yummy AND Gluten Free!

Yummy AND Gluten Free!

I realized that most ingredients can be easily substituted with gluten free products. This past week I made shrimp scampi – one with regular breadcrumbs, and one with gluten free breadcrumbs. It was a hit. Austin gave it two thumbs up and actually asked for me to cook it again sometime. That was a shock because he is extremely picky…I never know what he is going to like or not like.

Bailey’s favorite meal is my homemade fettuccine Alfredo. The Alfredo sauce is naturally gluten free, but I use GF pasta for her and regular pasta for us. She asks for it every time she is over at our house and it makes me smile because it’s something special that I can make for her.

Cooking gluten free can be a bit frustrating for someone whose favorite foods always start with “enriched flour” in the ingredient list, but I’m learning. And there are still days when I throw a piece of fish in the oven because the kids don’t want to eat what we are eating, even if it can be made GF.

I recently got a nice compliment from the kids. Bailey asked her mother if she could make some of the recipes that I make for her when she is at our house because she loves my cooking.

SCORE!

I found that cooking can be very rewarding when people actually like what you’re spending the time to cook, so taking the time to find out what they love is worth its weight in homemade gluten free pumpkin pie.

Moving and Shaking at Christmas

| | Posted in Christmas, Family, Moving, Relocating, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , ,

This year, my husband and I spent the last few days and hours before Christmas moving from our home of the last three years to a new home less than a mile away. I know, I know. Moving at Christmastime isn’t the brightest thing we’ve ever done, especially since we were not planning on moving until May. But the home we have had our eye on came on the market over Thanksgiving and so we swooped in and grabbed it, even though it would mean we had to move over the Christmas holidays.

“How bad could it be?” we thought.

You’d think this would be a simple process, however, I can assure you IT WAS NOT.

We expected it would take the movers four to five hours to move us. Nope. It took almost nine hours. And they still didn’t get it all. When we realized after the five hours passed that we still had at least a third left in the house to move, and we were already wayyyyyy over our moving budget, we asked them to just start throwing boxes in the truck and then into our new basement. It started to look like a game of “Hot Potato” as they picked up the pace. So far, I haven’t found anything broken where they dropped the potato.

To top off the fun, the temperature was a chilly 37 degrees and since the doors had to stay open for the movers to get in and out of the house, we turned off the heat and I piled on the clothes. I looked like the kid from “Christmas Story.” For those of you who know me, I’m usually still wearing a light sweater in 80 degree weather. I was praying for a peri-menopause hot flash but just like when you take your car to the mechanic and it works perfectly, my body decided that I didn’t need a hot flash at that moment.

So I froze.

The movers eventually left and all I could think of was how bad I needed a nice warm shower. My muscles were achy, my core was frozen and my armpits smelled like I had never heard of deodorant.

But apparently that was not in the divine plan. In all of the moving craziness, we had not lit the pilot light in the gas water heater nor did we have any idea how to do it. Thankfully, Heaven sent us our angelic handyman to come by at 9 P.M. to light the water heater. (It could have been the pitiful phone call that I placed to him begging him to help us out. I might have also let out a small sob which could have been his deciding factor).

Regardless, three hours later I got my hot shower.

We unpacked for the next two days and finally got our Christmas tree up at 1 A.M. Christmas Eve since my step-kids were coming home mid-day on Christmas. photo(40)

And believe it or not, by the time my in-laws came over that evening for Christmas dinner, we had the house looking like we had been living in it for months instead of days.

The moral of the story is that with some determination, you can make something good out of difficult situations. (Having muscular men around to lift the heavy items doesn’t hurt.)

Now my days are being filled with changing out light fixtures, painting rooms, hanging pictures, putting away pots and pans, dishes and clothes. And the Angry Birds band-aids that I have on five of my fingers indicate my dedication to getting this house in order.

Maybe I’ll be completely finished unpacking by the Spring.

Because then it will be time to work in the yard and plant my garden!