Oh, Sleep….You B*tch

Rolling over to check the clock for the seventh time, I see it’s 2:34 am. The good news? I still have about three and a half hours until I need to get up. The bad news? I’ve been checking time since 11:00 pm AND I know I won’t fall asleep before then. Not like real sleep. Because of stupid annoying irritating aggravating menopause. What a bitch she is. I hate her.

I don’t think I’ve slept through the night in 2 years – but menopause is like dog years, only worse. So in that sense, I haven’t slept through the night in about 21 years. Couple that with looking over at my husband who is soooo completely snuggly nestle-y in our comforter that I can barely see him. Hateful. Just look at him… Pure sleepy bliss. In fact, I think I actually hear his eyes move. Must be in REM sleep. Lame, Adam. Lame. Oh wait. He’s rolling over undisturbed … big stretch. Hmmmm. No more eye movement so he clearly has entered the next level: deep sleep. Ugh. What a monster. Plus, deep sleep is where all the good stuff happens, y’all. Muscle, bone, and tissue repair. Long and short term memory build up. Energy Restoration. Better congnitive functioning and emotional processing. THE GOOD STUFF.


I’m on top of the covers as if I’m laying out in the sun on vacation. Only there’s no sun. No vacation. No People magazine. No frozen Chi Chi. No towel service. No fantastic poolside french fries that cost $18 but are totally worth it. Nothing. Just heat. ALL the heat. Alternating ALL the night.

I give him my best “must be nice” cold stare whilst not ruling out an ‘accidental’ kick to the groin. I’m not saying I’m feeling stabby, but I’m not NOT saying it. And if I’m being honest, my mind says he’s probably sleeping like an angel bébé on purpose. Just to spite me. Because this is the only thing that makes sense to me at 2:34 am.

Quickly my brain changes gears as it often does when I find myself unable to partake in the joyful rest of slumber. Completely random memories that would never enter my mind during vertical moments, only horizontal, pop in like an old friend. Memories from my past that love to wave me down in the 2s, 3s, and 4s of the AM. This morning’s took me back to third grade where I remembered learning about Haikus. I mean, that’s normal, right? Who doesn’t want to celebrate and create a time honored Japanese way of poetry in the dead ass part of morn? Plus, it’s a simple three lines. First line: 5 syllables. Second line: 7 syllables. Third line: 5 syllables. And it’s in this insomniac mania that I start composing Haikus based on my current situation at 2:34 am. So naturally I thought I would share.

Amy’s Menopausal Sleep
This freaking sucks balls.
Covers off, SIGH, covers on,
Hot, cold, hot, cold, hot.

My Husband’s Blissful Sleep
Well, aren’t you a doll.
Ever sleepy and peaceful
Slumbering Asshole.

In Conclusion
Of course I love you.
But might love you slightly more
If you were awake.

Menopause is supposed to last years. Years. And again, ‘menopause years’ are not standard time increments. So I have a good 42 more years of this madness.

Although….that IS a lot of time to add additional super awesome Haikus to my sleepless portfolio. Interesting.

Although maybe instead of taking a stab at my husband, I’ll take a stab at crafting a Cinquain next time. TBD, y’all. Tee. Bee. Dee.

And if you have an equally fantastic Haiku on the joys of aging,
PLEASE add yours in the comments! I’d love to read them!

Graphic: https://tenor.com/view/wide-awake-insomnia-ive-never-been-so-tired-in-my-life-vintage-gif-15764472

Go Home Big

My husband and I like to joke when returning home from a vacation that we aren’t Go Big or Go Home people. We are Go Home BIG people. We fully embrace this phrase because when on vacation we eat and drink ALL the things. Our justification is that it is part of experiencing different regions as well as giving ourselves permission to indulge in old favorites. Nobody wants to count calories in Grand Cayman! First place I’m headed to after I suit up? Swim up bar to order a frozen Chi Chi. Amen and Amen! Bread every day/every meal in Paris? Oui, s’il vous plaît! Same philosophy goes for holidays. I don’t normally allow myself banana pudding – but on Thanksgiving and Christmas? Hell yeah, I’lI have a bowl or two of that creamy yellow banana-y goodness with vanilla wafers that have turned into a cakey softness. It’s okay because holidays and vacations aren’t my every day. My every day is typically filled with exercise and eating healthy because I’ve had to learn how to manage my weight. But I have definitely dealt with the repercussions of when I spill those vacation/holiday habits into my every day.

Going back, for those of you that can go back (LOL), remember the old seesaws from the 70s? The long hot metal rectangle that would burn the back of your thighs in the hot summer sun – but you wanted to climb on anyway? Not this kid. It was actually my biggest nightmare. I hated seesaws for one huge reason (pun intended): I was the fat kid. I knew beyond measure that if I sat on one side there would not be an even match for the other. Realistically, it would take two kids … which I assumed would come with a whole set of jokes at my expense. “We’ll never get down!” or… “She’s going to rocket us into space.” Because let’s face it, kids can be assholes – and growing up I had my share of assholery directed at my appearance.

What I’ve come to realize, however, is that despite hating and avoiding seesaws I’ve actually been riding one most of my life. My ups and downs relate to pounds. There’s vacation eating (up) versus day to day eating (down). There’s my heavy early 20s (up) and my later thinned out 20s (down). I’ve made peace with this ride. Ish.

However, recently I’ve noticed this ‘seesaw’ I’m on has created quite the cringe worthy pattern in me. Whenever I look at my FaceBook memories, I have this internal dialog of reflection that focuses solely on my weight. It looks/sounds something like this:

And that picture at the top? On the beach? I wish I could still fit into that size 6 Ralph Lauren tankini that I worked SOOOO hard to able to wear. (And RL runs small, y’all!) But what an ick factor that I noticed how I felt about my weight before I remembered how awesome our vacation was!
Ick. Ick. Ick. That’s what I do. I attach pounds to every single picture of me.


Does anyone else do this shit to themselves?

I was fortunate enough to be dealt a lot of great genes, but body type was not one of them. I’m not saying I hate my body – I don’t hate it. But it’s taken me a long time to get to that place of not. I also grew up with a twin brother that could eat anything he wanted without consequence. So, while Andy was eating chicken strips made in our Fry Pappy every afternoon, I was eating half an apple … watching him with a cold stare and a slow blink.

Do I think it sucks that I will for the rest of my life deal with weight? Sometimes. Do I enjoy the constant obsession with calories or carbs or fat content? Not really. Does it completely blow my mind that there are people walking this earth that can eat whatever they want and never ever gain? Like – walk into a restaurant, pick up the menu, and think “chicken fried steak sounds good today.” Dear LORD!! You monsters!!!  

However, that’s my cross. I have friends and family that have far bigger crosses to bear than me. Crosses that weigh much more than my cyclical 15 to 20 pound tummy tire. They deal with heartbreak, finances, mental illness, physical illness, grief, loneliness, abuse … to an extent that it would be very difficult to raise them if we were on a seesaw together. So that’s really why I’m okay with my situation.

But it’s a new year … that time where we adjust things. Make goals. Reflect. If I’m at peace with my seesaw then, what is this even about?

It’s the pictures.

Right? I need to fix THAT shit, right? Shift my perspective.
STOP attaching the freaking weight. Appreciate the memory. Focus on the important things.

I know. I know. I know. Noted. Okay. I’ll work on it.

With that then, what I should really truly focus on for 2023, is instead of looking at pictures of myself thinking …

I’ll celebrate them with an Awwww! What a great memory!! Because that’s what’s important.

Yep. That’s my new objective. BUT, if I can’t do that consistently and successfully, then I’ll turn my focus towards an equally important and life changing goal…

I’m going to start parting my hair down the middle.

FYI, I’m ‘down’ in this picture. DAMMIT!!! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! Sorry!

Frozen Chi Chi Recipe (You’re Welcome!)

  • 1 ½ cups frozen pineapple
  • 1 ½ cups ice
  • 4 ounces (½ cup) vodka
  • 2 ounces (¼ cup) cream of coconut
  • 4 ounces (½ cup) pineapple juice

Blend pineapple and ice until chunky. Add the remaining ingredients and blend until smooth. Serve garnished with a cocktail cherry, pineapple wedge, or drink umbrella, if desired.

Animated graphic: https://tenor.com/view/pfsf1968-elephant-back-flip-seesaw-gif-17473218

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in Southlake…

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, in Southlake that is. 
Santa soared thru the sky with a dash and a whiz
Knowing this place special, ‘twas a favorite of his 
Delivering goodies to dragons, both a-dult and kids. 

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Nothing Tastes as Good as Thin Feels?!?

In Texas we say “That’s some bullshit, y’all!” because I can personally think of a TON of culinary options that actually do taste better than being thin...which is 100% why I’ve struggled my entire life to be thin. I adore food so much that when I hear that particular phrase, I gotta call that shit out. Not only do I plan my next meal while eating my current meal, I’ve even deliberated what my VERY last meal might be. You know how prisoners on Death Row get to request their final meal? Don’t you think that’s a pretty big ask? I have spent an embarrassingly large amount of time reasoning what I would select. The thing is – I don’t know that I could narrow it down. Like, what are the parameters within the request? Can I have more than one main course? Is it just the entree or can I have dessert too? Are noshes included? What about alcohol? Do you see what I mean? It’s extremely hard to filter with so many fantastic options. BUT, if I HAD to choose, these would be just a few of the tasty treats from which I would consider potential final eating options. May I present to you my…

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The Last Shield

Almost 100% of my blog posts have been sarcastic, tongue in cheek, self-deprecating. It’s kind of my thing. 

This will not be one of those posts. 

My former hallway.

Like most of the nation I’m almost paralyzed watching the news unfold about the Uvalde shooting. Several friends are posting memes, starting threads in parent groups, texting each other, reaching out in anyway. We are all in shock, yet … not in shock. Because here we are again

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Don’t Sweat It!

Yep. We’re going there.

Image recreated and exaggerated for pure fun effect. Lol!

Y’all please. I have no words. Actually, I do. I have words. Lots of words.

Here’s what I KNOW about peri/post menopause from personal experience:

  1. Hot flashes
  2. Cold flashes immediately following hot flashes
  3. Not being able to go to sleep
  4. Not being able to sleep through the night
  5. What the hell is sleep anymore
  6. Saggy face skin that hangs like it’s melting
  7. Chin hair
  8. Rogue eyebrows
  9. An ass that disappeared yet is bigger than it used to be
  10. Ironic thinning of head hair despite the abundance of #7 and #8
  11. Insanely irregular periods that resemble crime scenes
  12. Fat hovering around my midsection like a child’s pool floaty
  13. Irritability (to be fair, I’ve always had this)
  14. Forgetting things
  15. And something else…what was it. Shit! I forgot. 
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A Bad Ass, Not A Fat Ass

During my morning run today, as I effortlessly cruised up a shaded hill singing out loud to one of my favorite running songs (The White Stripes Seven Nation Army), I hit an unmistakeable smell that caused me to come to a crashing halt. This smell immediately brought back a flood of painful memories. This happens when I run every spring and it is single handedly, at least to me, the worst smell in the entire world.

Fresh cut grass.

I unapologetically LOATHE the smell of freshly cut grass. To be clearer, the scent alone makes me want to crawl into the fetal position and rock myself in a corner. Makes me get a searing knot in the pit of my stomach alluding to an ill-timed bowel movement. Makes me nervously sweat in all the awkward places. The fact that you can even buy sh*t scented as fresh cut grass?? I. DIE.
Not me.
I’d rather have a box of pears.

Why this irrational hatred?

Because the smell of freshly cut grass symbolizes everything I hated about being a fat kid in elementary school.

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Weight a Freaking Minute! Not AGAIN!?!?!

All about making changes!

Well, here the hell I go again! I’ve been a member of Weight Watchers for over 30 years. I went in to update my ‘starting weight’ for 2020….because after all: “New Year, New You.” Right? That phrase makes me want to vomit. Let’s be REAL clear…..I don’t just start a diet on January 1st. I start diets ALL the time. Other than the obligatory diet start date of a January 1st – my only other rule when beginning one throughout the year – it has to be on a Monday. Nobody is going to start on a Friday or Saturday. That’s absurd. Those days are for margaritas and queso. Or any other day of the week if you are in my current state of wheels off. Sunday feels like the last day of the weekend – so I’m not going to put down the Fritos and bean dip then. Who starts ANYTHING on a random Tuesday. You see where I’m going with this? Is it throwing me off a tad to start over [AGAIN] on a Wednesday? A little bit, sure. But I’ll give it a go because I’m not a quitter! As mentioned – member of WW for 30+ years and haven’t quit yet. 🙌 I will say, however, when I did type my weight in this morning and this message popped up “Are you sure you mean to track this weight?” it stung a little. You too, Weight Watchers? Just cash your $16.88 for the month and table the judgement.

Assholes. My mother didn’t believe me. Sadly, here is the proof.

It feels as if I’ve been watching my weight since birth. This endless seesaw of being fat versus being thin hasn’t always been pretty or healthy. The obsession over my appearance started about 46 years ago when I noticed that I was constantly being compared to my brother Andy. Why? Because we are twins. Before I go any farther – let’s start with a visual…

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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.  

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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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