Many Paws and a raffle for a free book!

If you agree with me that menopause bites, then it may not be too much of a stretch to go from menopause to Many Paws. Woof.

Don’t hate me because I love puns. 

Many Paws is a new “altered book” by writer and artist, Susan DeGarmo. She loves puns, too. From the flaming red-orange cover to the detachable last page of purple irises that can be converted to a hot flash fan, DeGarmo acknowledges the pitfalls that many of us experience during “the change.”

Many Paws is Susan’s adroit way of disguising the subject of the book, since “no southern lady is going to have a book laying round that  says ‘Menopause.’”

However, if you leave the book on your coffee table, the ladies from church may be startled to flip open the pop-up book and see artwork of a reclining female nude, covered in strategic places with long-eared white “hares,” since “Now gray hairs are everywhere!”

But, honestly, church ladies aren’t as easily shocked as they used to be. Especially if they are struggling with changes of their own.

What it is: Many Paws, Susan DeGarmo's altered book from Meaux Books that is customizable. You can put your own photos, or those of a loved one, over the heads of some of the figures in the book. If you give the book to a friend, for example, you can put her face in the book.

How it came to be: DeGarmo was teaching a class about making altered books while having a hot flash, and Voila! Many Paws came to be.

What makes it unique: It’s a pop-up book for adults! It has moving parts! It has (tasteful) nudity! It socks menopause a big one in the kisser!

Conclusion: A great gift book for anyone in or approaching menopause. Even those women who are having an "easier" time with the change will appreciate the humor and pathos. The art work is fun and inspiring!

Make a comment below to be entered in a raffle for a free copy of Many Paws. One entry per person, please.

http://www.manypawsforwomen.com/

Disclosure: I was provided copies of the books, but the opinions expressed are my own. 

Big Girl Panties

Big Girl Panties

Oh, I wash ‘em, I dry ‘em
fold ‘em in the drawer
Stormy day comin’
An’ I gonna need ‘em sure.

Big girl panties
Keep me strong
Keep me sane
Keep me goin’
Up life’s lane.

Without my big girl panties
want to cry and moan.
I whine, I fuss,
groan and cuss.
Wanna run away from home.

But blessed big girl panties
sho’ nuf revive my pride
My spirit rises,
Backbone grows
I’m gonna make it
This I knows.

Small stuff
Ain’t worth sweatin’
Big girl panties
Ain’t just fluff!

Thank you, big girl panties.
Almost lost my way.
But with yo’ soft
silky support
Tomorrow is
Another day!

Mad Methods: First, Get Their Attention

When you come visit my house, you may be shocked to see People magazine on the coffee table.

You may think “But Melanie is a certified egghead-intellectual. I expected to see first editions of Proust, Tolstoy and Hemingway. How can it be that a woman of such high intelligence reads low-brow People magazine?” I know, right?

It’s self-defense, with a little teaching method on the side.

You have heard that I teach at a community college. One of my important goals in working there, aside from saving the world for democracy, molding  clean and healthy young minds, and making my mortgage payment, is to NOT look like a TOTAL, CLUELESS  DORK when it comes to popular culture.

Yes, I am that shallow. ­

I don’t want to be the laughingstock teacher who doesn’t know the remake of Footloose stars newcomers to the big screen Kenny Wormald and Julianne Hough. Twenty-three and dating Ryan Seacrest, Julianne is one of the many gorgeous blonds from Dancing With The Stars.

Although it’s a bit of a losing battle for middle-aged me, I do try to keep up with more than the latest methods to teach an expository essay.  

Does Kate Gosselin have a new hairdo? Queen Latifa a new clothing line? Suri Cruz a new designer bag? Lady Gaga a hat with fruit-colored dollar signs? Just ask me. I feel like the kid who wildly waves her hand in class hollering “I know, I know!”

Through People I grub a smidge of pop culture street-cred by brazenly dropping factoids about Ashton Kuctcher or Laurence Fishburne after class.

Even at my most “hip” (in relative terms), about three decades ago, I preferred watching old black and white movies from the 1930s, was more than slightly fashion-challenged, and didn’t follow the love lives of celebrities.

Yet nowadays I try to stay informed on the cast of True Blood. When the English lesson has gone sour, the students are yawning, and we’re all looking at the clock, I can throw out an "Anna Paquin" and re-charge the atmosphere.  Don’t worry, the off-the-wall comment will get tied back into "how to add detail to a college level essay." But first, I had to get their attention by name dropping.

Does most of this People magazine information matter a whit in the big scheme of life? Heck, no.

Does People help me teach better by keeping my students guessing what nugget of cultural nonsense they may hear next? Yes.

To get and hold their attention, I’m willing to play the fool, the prankster, the geek. Some might see this behavior as beneath a college teacher, but it works for me. I’ll sometimes sell my dignity to roust the dears out of a stupor. They have to break out of the fog before I can reach them.

And you know what? In the end, I have fun, and my students learn. All from an unexpected source: People magazine.

I have copy of Proust if you’d like to borrow it. 

Ode to Bacon

Bacon in the morning,

Bacon at noon.

Bacon is so good

He sends me to the moon.

*With sincere apologies to my many friends and family members who do not eat pork on moral or religious grounds.  Truly.

I don’t eat bacon every day, nor every week.

Most months I do eat some bacon either on its own or as seasoning, especially in soup.  

I’m not addicted to bacon; I can give him up, er, it up, any time I want!

Yeah, right.

I never eat bacon on a burger, never eat ersatz/turkey/soy bacon, never eat “bacon bits.” If these are some of your favorites, this blog is a safe place—I do not judge you.

I can’t eat more than three strips of bacon per day, or it triggers a migraine. No, really. Helps give bacon that dangerous edge, no?

Yet bacon is one of those foods I don’t want to live without.

Bacon and I go back as far as I can remember… it was a sunny spring morning, and Bacon and I were racing to each other across a meadow of daisies…

Or was it a glittering nightclub in Harlem, in 1924, when I saw him dancing in another woman’s arms, and yet I knew…

Or was it that day in the market in Barcelona, when he looked up from under the brim of his Cordobés, with a dimpled smile of destiny?


Whenever it was, Bacon and I became lovers.


Much later, after Bacon and I smoked a cigarette, I made soup.

Almost every soup in my repertory (yes, I am a soup maven) includes at the onset two strips of bacon and a diced onion, browning in the bottom of a stock pot. By the time the soup is complete, you barely know the bacon is in there.

The bacon flavor is elusive, adding a depth of flavor to the star of the soup: the mushrooms in Cream of Mushroom, the potatoes in Potato/Cheddar cheese soup, or the clams in Manhattan Clam Chowder.

The aroma of bacon cooking is why, although a confirmed animal lover and kitty foster mother, I may never be a vegetarian.

If you fry bacon in my house and I don’t come to investigate, you know I am extremely ill. Quite likely, dead.

Bacon will mourn. Comfort him any way you can.

My Last Meal

Oh, no!

It’s my last meal?

That sucks.

Fire up the grill, then, mes amis. But first….

Launder, dry, and iron my white linen blindfold, light on the starch. Load the rifles of the firing squad, and bring me hot water for my final ablutions.

Is Chaz Dean available to do my hair? Will he weave some baby’s breath around my head? Bobbie Brown for my makeup, please.

My sunset ombre ruched gown by Monique Lhuillier just arrived from Neiman-Marcus, for a mere $5,290.00 + tax and shipping. Sunset colored, get it? Isn’t it the bomb? Strapless, backless, full flowing skirt.

No thanks on the Spanx.

Oprah—so good of her to attend every day of my trial—has loaned me her favorite diamond drop earrings. I won’t need them for long. Kim Kardashian sent me her 20.5 ct. engagement ring, since she can’t bear to look at it with the unfortunate pending divorce. That will round out my understated jewelry.

For my perfume… hmmn. C’est tres difficil. I’ll have a light spritz of Insolence (Guerlain)? My Sin (Lanvin)? Poison (Dior)? Yes, Poison, please.

No shoes. I’ll have a nice pedicure and expire, au naturelle, barefoot, just the way I was born.

The hour is upon me.

Bring out the antique bone china, the cut crystal, the sterling flatware. Something nice and ornate.Being held prisoner in this royal castle does have its advantages. The dining room is well appointed; a ballroom is nearby.

Some red rosebuds in a crystal bowl are the centerpiece. Twelve ivory beeswax candles glow. The air-conditioner is cranked, so the room is just slightly cool. Even preparing for death, my menopausal needs must be met.

Billy Joel, wearing a tux, is singing “Only the Good Die Young.” Gregg Allman and the boys rock out on “I’m No Angel.” Sting makes a special appearance, and patiently waits for his turn to sing “Every Breath You Take.” “Hungry Heart” is Bruce Springsteen’s contribution.

Now, for the repast. The appetizer: a half dozen Chesapeake Bay oysters, with lemon, chilled on ice.

What’s this? Jon Bon Jovi offers to be my server for the evening. He looks smashing and asks me to dance while my main course is prepared. I’m a wonderful dancer after the tutoring by Maksim Chmerkovskiy. Jon sweeps me across the floor in a blur, whispering the lyrics to "Living On A Prayer" in my ear.

Next arrives a 1 ½ inch thick Angus beef, New York strip steak, marinated eight hours in a mix of fragrant, freshly chopped garlic, olive oil, red wine vinegar, fresh thyme, salt, and black pepper. Grill it medium rare, over a hickory-wood fire, and make sure it is still pink in the middle, please.

I am a woman of simple tastes.

On the side, freshly made mashed Idaho russet potatoes with butter and cream, salt and pepper. Butter melting into the lovely mound of fluffy goodness.

Asparagus spears, lightly steamed, with homemade hollandaise sauce.

Hot, crusty French bread, and keep it coming, with the finest Italian olive oil and herbes de Provence in a small bowl for dipping.

Scotch, please, in a Waterford crystal glass. An 18 year-old-Macallan single malt should do.  A goblet and a pitcher of spring water with ice, as well.

For desert… an assortment of miniature French pastries, Devonshire scones, clotted cream, and a warm dark chocolate sauce on the side. Some strawberries, too.

Ah, I am replete. I will say my prayers, now, and bid you, adieu.

I push away from the table.

But what is that ringing? The telephone? The governor, a reprieve?

I’m not giving back the gown.

Nutty in the Family Tree

In doing a little genealogical research, I discovered that a possible relative from the 1500s got into trouble with an ax. According to the records, he killed two people with the ax, and his brother helped him bury the bodies.

He was hanged. His brother was found not guilty.

I am not a violent person and don’t believe in solving problems with violence.

However, I am in menopause. I have had more violent thoughts in the last year than in all the 53 prior years combined.

I get mad. I get red-faced. I haven’t had a screaming fit so far, but who knows how long I can hold out? I have fantasized, lightly, about offing a couple of difficult people, but haven’t laid a hand on anyone in violence. Yet.

I had a student a few years back who told me in confidence that if he ever got a fatal diagnosis, he was prepared with a list of people he would send to the next world before he died. Laughing it off at the time, now I have toyed with a short list of people who would improve the world greatly by leaving it. Just in case.

Does it make me a bad person if I want to make the world a better place?

No, don’t dial 911. This is a post filed under “humor,” okay? There wasn’t a category for “humor in poor taste.”

I’m not going to take action on my little fancies. And come on, if you’ve ever read a novel where someone was killed who needed killing, and said to yourself, “Yeah! Woot!” are you really so very different from menopausal me?

If you’ve read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series, you know what I mean about being happy that Lisbeth had a golf club handy at just the right moment. With my little personalized fantasies of minor blood and guts, I’ve just strayed momentarily over to non-fiction for my subject matter.

I have moments where my cloud of generalized rage makes me think about Mr. T, from the old TV show, The A Team. Remember his line, “I pity the fool!”?

Sometimes when I hear a noise in the night, instead of getting scared, I think, “Go ahead and break-in to my house, knucklehead. I’ve got a hickory walking cane with your name on it.” Then the noisy squirrel or possum on the porch, sniffing my bad karmic energy, wisely runs away.

I do pity the fool who may give me a reason to go berserk in a just cause, like defending myself or others.

I’m not proud of my possible ancestor, don’t get me wrong. But in a tiny, trifling way, through menopause I may understand the homicidal urge just a weensy bit better.

I stay away from axes, but I do keep a hammer in my desk drawer in case I have a sudden impulse to “hang a picture.”

How about you? Any occasional homicidal fantasies? Random thoughts of violence? Please don’t forget, this is humor, people, humor. Have an ax-free day!

I've been searching for blogs that might address this stressful, anxious time of life-- the so-called middle. If I live to be 108. There are few blogs out there, but they tend to have a narrow focus. That's great, but...

In this blog, I'd like to cover a bit more ground.

But what? The good, the bad, the ugly, and the funny about being middle-aged and middle class (barely). 
I help care for my parents, aged 81 and 85. A lot of you care for elderly relatives, too. That's Mom, chilling on the blue bench, below.
I hope you will share in my stories and contribute some of your own.

Because of who I am, books, writing, and reading will be an important part of the blog, but hopefully not in a dusty way. I'm surrounded by enough dust already. Cough.

Let's share our confessions, respect each other's privacy, and keep hurtful comments, hater-type criticism and rudeness in the blog down the street.

Here's my middle aged confession of the day. I was so incredibly tired last night while I was putting on my night shirt. The shirt has a large print pattern with random words on the front that should have made it easy to get into correctly.

Alas, when I looked in the mirror to brush my teeth, I saw the shirt was on INSIDE OUT out AND BACKWARDS.

Really? I can't get my nightshirt on without error?

I'm sure you fine people never do anything like this. Or do you?