Dreaming of a White Christmas

One of my favorite movies to watch during the holidays is Christmas Vacation. It’s one of those movies that is so entertaining to me, I am immediately sucked in no matter the scene. Yet one particular scene that resonates in my head these days is when Clark (Chevy Chase) finds himself stuck in his attic. He stumbles upon some old home movies and since he is trapped and has nothing else to do, ends up watching them. The heartfelt nostalgia of happy memories brings him to the point of bittersweet tears.

This is where I am right now – but not because of what you might be thinking. It’s because of my white jeans. They have temporarily been removed from my outfit rotation. When I see old pictures of me sporting them blissfully happy yet oblivious to the impending separation…the tears start to well.  

Here’s why: Perimenopause.

Fellas – this may be where you want to tap out because not only won’t you understand, you won’t want to understand. You might start feeling uncomfortable and look for the nearest exit. Lucky for you, you don’t have to go through the humiliating process of watching your insides vacate your body in a horrible surrender. During this period (pun intended) of sporadic visits that are no longer consistent and reliable, it comes with the added bonus of resembling a murder scene in your pants. Almost immediately. I liken being premenopausal to getting a surprise visit from an unwelcome family member. Take Cousin Eddie from Christmas Vacation. There’s absolutely no warning of arrival. Clark is never prepared. Eddie is disgusting, intrusive, inconvenient. Thus, due to this lack of a warning system and the sheer nature of the floods that dispense, white jeans have become an unfortunate causality. Then, before you know it, cousin Eddie transforms into the main character from the prom scene in Carrie.

T-minus blood bath in
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

Hence, my most recent humiliating incident: The Holiday Party. Let me set the scene for you. I was standing with my husband Adam while drinking a really nice Cabernet. Laughing with my good friends and introducing myself to new ones – I delusionally felt like I was in the driver’s seat this time because I actually knew what my current southern situation was. Yes, it had caught me off guard earlier in the day, but I was able to divert from a holiday winter white ensemble into a safe pair of dark skinny jeans. Crisis averted. I’d been burned before so this time I did everything I was supposed to do. Wear dark clothes. Suit up the South immediately prior to departure. But ladies, don’t ever be as naïve as I was. Don’t ever feel like you have the upper hand. It was as if my insides thought we were playing a fun little game of ‘One Up.’ My body looked at my precautions as a challenge and almost two hours in to the party, I could tell what was happening. The tides had turned. That’s all it took. Prom scene. 

Horrified but trying to keep calm, I quietly asked my husband to look at my crotch. Sadly, during this fabulous stage of my life, it’s not a new request. Fortunately,  it’s one he doesn’t mind, so at least there’s that. 🤷‍♀️ But you know how people say “Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to?’ 

I asked.

Nervously I whispered “Can you tell I’m bleeding out?” He reassuringly said “No.” A sigh of relief washed over me only to have my sense of security immediately broken with the delivery of his next line … “Kinda looks like you peed your pants though.”

FAN–F’ING–TASTIC!!!! 

Thus commenced the stealth like evacuation process from a heavily populated extravaganza. I heard the theme music to Mission Impossible in my head as the panic sweats began. Or was this just another ill- timed hot flash?!?!

BLOODY HELL! 

I knew I had two immediate courses of action: Make no eye contact. Cover your crotch. 

With cat like moves we made it to the front door whilst Adam arranged for our Uber. Seven Minutes. Good God! SEVEN MINUTES??? No eye contact. Cover your crotch. After what seemed longer than a 5-year-old waiting for Christmas morning I felt we had to move. While silently praying that someone I knew wasn’t standing on the other side of the front door, we exited and headed for the street. No. Eye. Contact. Cover. Your. Crotch. Sweet glory of isolation. We had successfully avoided any witnesses to the crime scene on my pants.

Did I get lucky this time? I did. Will it happen again? 100%. See? This, my friends, is why I have to temporarily say goodbye to my favorite white jeans. I love them too much to warrant that kind of a risk. With that said, however, much like I’ll be reunited with my departed loved ones in heaven, I find a sense of peace knowing that after this slow agonizing death of my insides is over – my white jeans and I shall meet up again. 

Finally, in the spirit of the holidays, I’ve taken the liberty to rename some of our most beloved carols to further illustrate what this process is like for a woman in her mid 40s to late 50s.  Feel free to sing along.

  • Meno Pause is Coming to Town
  • O Holy Hell
  • Have Yourself Huge Sanitary Napkins
  • Oh Tampon-Baum
  • Frosty the Bloated
  • Joy to the Weight [Gain]
  • Hark the Hemorrhage Angels Sing
  • Silent Night, Sweaty Night
  • Carol of the Swells
  • Away in a Mood Swing
  • Little Town Insomnia
  • Good King Wence-Incontinence
  • Angels We Hot Flash on High
  • God Rest Ye Dying Uterus

Happy Holidays Everyone!

Enjoy those white jeans baby girl.
Enjoy. Those. Jeans.


Images:
Christmas Vacation: https://digbr.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/attic1_8col.jpg
https://lunkiandsika.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/national-lampoons-christmas-vacation-cousin-eddie-randy-quaid-1989.png
Carrie: Photo by Silver Screen Collection/Getty Images, https://www.southernliving.com/culture/classic-prom-dresses-movies-tv

Only in New York

I know that New York City isn’t for everybody. You either love it or hate it. I fall deeply into the “love it” camp. My adoration of this place brings me here often. The clear advantage, in addition to all my accrued American Airline miles, is that it feels like my second home – especially since I’m past the point of all the touristy stuff. I literally can’t do the Statue of Liberty again, no offense to her at all. She is delightful, beautiful, iconic … but I’m so done.
Although we’ve respectively broken up, I wish her well. So with this seasoned status as non-tourist tourist, I get to just exist when here and pretend I’m a local… like sitting at the adult table when you aren’t really an adult. I feel pretty well versed in the day to day decisions of where to go, what to do, what line to take, what cab is gypsy, what puddle isn’t water, what avenue to avoid, what street purse is real… (FYI – None. You will never find a real Gucci in the back of someone’s van off Canal Street. And no, that’s not Chanel. Look closely, it’s ‘Channel’. Keep walking.)

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Red Ribbon Week: AKA – Some Sort of Fresh Hell

Red Ribbon Week, for those of you not in ‘the know’, is a week in October designed and dedicated to encourage kids not to use alcohol, tobacco, and other drugs. During this event every day of this week has a cutesy little catch phrase partnered with a dress-up challenge. For example, one day might be “Say Peace Out to Drugs!” and students would be encouraged to dress in peace symbols and tie dye. It’s a creative way to highlight a serious topic. When my kids were in elementary school – they participated because, Hello! When you’re a kid, you like to dress up. So I was that mom – I got the crazy socks, the camo shirt, the neon hair dye, the mismatched outfits, the detective costume, the team jersey, the Hawaiian lei. It was nothing short of an endless errand running madness sandwiched between all my other mom duties – but I did it because you do this sh*t for your kids! This has been going on for SEVEN YEARS.

Even though my kids are now in Intermediate and Middle school, I felt like I still had to at least ask them if they wanted to participate. Secretly, the idea of putting together outfits AGAIN made me want to lay down on a Kindermat and suck my thumb. I pretty much knew how my 8th grader would respond when I threw it out to her. I received the classic eye roll at the mere suggestion of doing something ‘participate-y’ coupled with the exact phrase “Are you freaking kidding me?”

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Sorry. Not My Kind of Bar!

There are many teaching milestones that we hit as parents. Potty training. Brushing teeth. Riding a bike. Fixing mommy a martini. You teach your littles how to do basic things so that when they leave your nest they can fly. Right?

This past weekend I realized that I had failed one of my baby birds in the oddest, unknowing way possible.

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Don’t Even Get Me Started

This is a ‘common house spider.’ It’s COMMON. In HOUSES! Kill me. Kill me now.

There are few things in life that truly terrify me. An empty wine fridge? Totally. Trying on bathing suits? 100%. My reflection when someone FaceTimes me? For sure. But nothing puts me in a rocking fetal position with thumb in mouth faster than spiders. With Halloween season upon us, I see them everywhere. Jewelry. Friends’ front porches. Pottery Barn. EVERYWHERE. I understand they aren’t real spiders – just decorations. Y’all, please. My brain knows that – but it can’t process it effectively enough. My own husband even participates in this mean spirited celebration of what haunts my deepest nightmares by putting a giant spider on our banister (as seen below). I KNOW it’s there and every morning on my way to get coffee it startles me…and makes me question the meaning of unconditional love.

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F’ing Parent Fails

I’ve been watching my precious 2-year-old niece on and off for a few weeks. This experience has taught me that my language has gotten a little salty over the years. Thankfully, I’ve caught myself from saying anything TOO horrible, but I can’t actually promise that I’m not sending her home with a strong use of the word “Crap.” At least it’s not “Dammit!” So there’s that?

The whole concept of little kids with potty mouths – the direct result of hearing their parents spew obscenities – reminded me of my own children when they were young. A few classics significantly stand out – although let’s be real clear, there are probably way more. I have either just forgotten them, or more likely, blocked them out. 

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Insanity: Denim Edition

Let me catch you up to speed by explaining my picture above:

Pile #1: Jeans that legit don’t fit anymore (17 pairs)
Pile #2: Jeans that fit, but hurt (2 pairs)
Pile #3: Jeans that fit and don’t hurt (1 pair – as in uno, lone, single, solo, solitary)
Pile #4: Jeans that have never fit and I’ve never worn – tags on, but bought anyway because they were super cute and were going to provide me with motivation to work out more and/or eat less (2 pairs).

THANK GOD FOR PILE #3. 🙏

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