Monthly Archives: July 2010

Dog Years

Carolyn–my blog mate, a friend I adore, someone to whom I frequently turn for comfort, advice or helluva belly laugh–is, I am sorry to say, in a pact with the devil.  Either that, or she’s been BOTOXING behind my back.   I think we can all agree that’s just as bad.

The woman won’t wrinkle.  It’s not normal.  You could ice skate on her cheek.  When she frowns, she gets this cute little pucker between her brows, and when she’ stops frowning the pucker goes away.  If I get even a tiny bit irritated in the morning, my forehead looks like scratch paper for Rand McNally the rest of the day.

So what’s up with Carolyn?

It could be that she’s holding out on me.  Juicing Goji berries or injecting the urine of pregnant camels.  But I think she’d tell me that eventually.  No, I have a theory.  Wait for it….

The day you are officially in menopause, you begin to age in dog years.

I’m sorry; I think it’s true.  Many blogs ago, I mentioned that in menopause you get a new face every day, but it’s never the one you want.  Carolyn hasn’t been in menopause long enough to have truly experienced this phenomenon.  She may be three years older than I am chronologically speaking, but that doesn’t count.  Because I have been in menopause longer.  My birth certificate claims I’m pushing forty-nine, but I’ve been in menopause four years.  These last four years are like seven years each, so, really, my face is seventy-seven.

This is so cool!  Yesterday, I watched the lipstick climb to my nostrils in no time flat and thought, “Wendy, you’re not aging well.”  Then I thought about Carolyn, hit on the Menopause/Dog Years theory, and now I feel great.

Carolyn looks super at fifty-two.  And I am rockin’ seventy-seven.

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Filed under Writing


Unless you're on Facebook!

One of the coolest things about being on Facebook is how popular it makes you feel.  “Looky there, Pa!  I got fifty thousand friends!”  Just think how much loot you’d get, if you invited all of your ‘friends’ to like, your wedding.  Or graduation.   Or birthday party.

I especially cherish the friend requests from my ‘friends’ who sport names like Aboijalee Yazdonuthole Xilfred or, Ima Scarymanstalker.  They always send sweet messages like:  “I lik you pix and I think luv you friend.”  Or, “Hey, I like your profile and plan to be in your town soon, maybe you could show me around?  Heh, heh, heh, snort, heh.”

Shucks!  Heck yeah!  Come on over, my friend!  After all, you saw my profile on Facebook and you lik to be my friend.

I find having so many friends a comfort.  For example, should my husband get it in his head to say, cut off another one of his fingers…I could call on one of my ‘friends’ to come hold the fort down while I’m in the E.R.  Take care of the kids.  Bring a casserole.  “Hey, Aboijalee Yazdonuthole Xilfred!  C’mon over and help me clean the gutters this weekend?  I’ll supply the beer and pizza!”

If I have inadvertently ever befriended you and you find me and my life to be something you don’t lik, by all means, un-friend me.  Won’t hurt me a bit.  After all, I’ll just make more.  Hundreds of bosom buddies to show around when they are in my town from whatever planet they happen to hail from.

In the mean time, as Sweet Baby-James says, “You just call…out my name…and ya know, where ever I am…I’ll come runnin’ to see ya again… Winter, spring, summer or fall, all ya gotta do is call (or instant message me) and I’ll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah…

Cuz you gotta friend-on-Facebook.



Filed under Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood