One of my most favorite, hug-myself-silly memories of my life happened Friday, 8-8-08. Over 100 family members and friends attended the national premiere party for Menopause Sucks. We enjoyed live music, tasty appetizers, and irreverent excerpts from my book. The event provided a marvelous moment to express some heartfelt gratitude and sassy attitude.The “Kiss My Attitude” menu included Whine and Cheese Plate, Crabby Cakes with No-Sweat Sauce, Crazy Lady Fruit Plate, PMS Pita with Hot Flash Humus, Wild Woman Won Tons with Sassy Sauce, Empty Nest Salad with Vixen Veggies, and Memory Loss Mousse. Delightful drinks were Friends Forever Frozen Wine, Wrinkle-free White Wine, and Road Rage Red Wine.My daughter, son, and son-in-law helped with crowd control and money gathering (both important activities.) And, my fabulous granddaughter charmed and entertained everyone. As I read from the book, my brave 27-year-old son attempted to hide under a table, especially when I shared some snippets about vaginal dryness, midlife sex, and hairy toes. Perhaps therapy is in order.
Blog
Midlife Cabernet: Keep on Dancing through Life
The small advertisement appeared as a nugget of nostalgia between the like-new drum set and the antique piano: “1970s jukebox. Works sometimes. $100 or best offer.” For a brief, irrational moment, I considered buying it. Then I remembered that my smart phone contained more music than a jukebox, and it fit better in my pocket.
Jukeboxes are unwanted relics of an ancient era, the true Happy Days. Our generation turned out the lights on our parent’s bugle boys as they wrapped stardust melodies with a string of pearls. We preferred the uncomplicated, steady beat of “Louie, Louie” and could buy it from a Wurlitzer with bubbling lights. Now the ability to instantly download any song at any time means that people miss the memorable magic of the jukebox experience.
I remember plunking in coins and pushing the buttons to hear songs from the 1960s. As teenagers wearing loafers and sweater sets, we eagerly watched as a vinyl record was mechanically pulled from the stack and placed on the spinning turntable. Then the needle swiveled over to latch into the grove to produce the sound. For farm kids in Wendell, this was as close as we would ever get to the live band.
On the checkered tile floors in the crowded cafés of our youth, we danced the Pony and the Twist and the Watusi as our pony tails bounced and dour chaperones scowled in disapproval from the sidelines. We never questioned the inane lyrics of “Wooly Bully” from Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, and we wailed with Lesley Gore singing “It’s My Party.” Everything changed when disco assaulted our rock and roll senses with mirrored balls and jerky movements. But, still, we danced.
During the early 1970s, we rode in the backs of pickup trucks with the music blaring over portable radios and we vowed to never get old. When we danced, we shouted “Hot Stuff” along with Donna Summer. Our luckier friends owned cars with 8-track tape players, and we traveled further away from our collections of scratchy vinyl records and electricity-dependent jukeboxes.
The 1980s tempered our free spirits as many of us married and had children. When we had the opportunity to dance, it was to the music of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” and the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams.” The jukeboxes were relegated to collectors and antique stores, and our cars replaced cassette tape players with CD players. Those of us with small children suffered through ghastly songs from a demented dinosaur named Barney and sweet songs from Raffi until we rebelled and taught our kids classics, such as “A Horse with No Name” by the band America.
Dance music lost its way during the 1990s when the most popular song was the “Macarena” by Los Del Rio. It was stupid and we refused to do it. Things didn’t improve in 2000 when hip hop substituted rhythm and lyrics with noise and profanity. Yes, we were aging and becoming the old farts we used to pity. Most of us just wanted the simplicity of good dance songs, and we were sustained with ageless musicians, including Elton John, the Rolling Stones, and Tina Turner.
The husky tones of a new voice brought hope in 2010 when Adele introduced “Rolling in the Deep” and Katy Perry ignited the air with “Firework.” We could dance to those songs.
We don’t ride in the back of pickup trucks anymore, and we’ve broken our pledge to never get older. By now, some of us resemble the shape of the old jukeboxes. But, we still refuse to be the grumpy sourpusses muttering in the corner. We want music and we will dance. A little slower now, but we will dance.
Today’s blog was fueled by a splendid 2010 Rombauer Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. The excellent wine was a gift from my daughter and her husband at a celebration that included wine, laughter, and dancing.
Today’s Cabernet
Today’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2005 Frei Brothers Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon from Alexander Valley. This full-bodied wine combines yummy flavors of dark berries, eucalyptus, sweet vanilla and toasty oak. It’s on sale at Albertsons for $18 (usually $22), so we’re having it tonight with a family BBQ. I hope there’s some left by the time everyone gets here.
Midlife Cabernet: Labels are for Food, not People
Read the label on a tub of frozen whipped topping and you’ll discover that the sweet treat contains enough chemical ingredients to eventually explode your internal organs. Assorted labels that describe me include left-handed, menopausal, witty, and Presbyterian. Any one of my identities could offend someone, but I’m still less toxic than Cool Whip.
It’s important for food to be labeled because you should know if the product you are buying to feed your family contains Polysorbate 60 – a chemically-derived emulsifier in Cool Whip that is linked to organ toxicity, chronic diarrhea, and tumors in laboratory rats. This fluffy concoction that looks so appealing in a Jell-O parfait also has synthetic wax, hydrogenated oils, and high fructose corn syrup. Just eat poison instead.
Labeling people is another matter, unless you intend to eat them. (In that case, find another blog.) Consider all the common labels that are used to classify people: liberal, conservative, divorced, elderly, teenage, politician, priest, or policeman. Every title prompts an opinion. When we meet someone for the first time, we instinctively process a conclusion when we learn that the person is either a ballerina or a mechanic. It shouldn’t matter unless we need some work done on our car.
We are living in a hateful bullying era that assigns negative labels to people for political or personal gain: loser, retarded, idiot, racist. Want to stop a lively, intelligent debate? Call someone a racist when there is no proof. Want to prove you have no decency? Call a mentally challenged person retarded. There is not enough soap to wash out the filthy mouths and minds of those who hurl destructive labels just to be cruel or to appear tough.
So, here is today’s assignment. Write down as many positive labels are you can: winner, smart, grateful, spirited, strong, loyal, talented, friendly, helpful, charming, dedicated, and spiritual. Use these descriptions liberally when talking to and about people. You’ll discover that others want to hear what you have to say, and they appreciate your positive attitude. They also want to be your friend.
This blog was prompted by some nasty comments made this week on social media sites. Normally sane friends clamored on Facebook that all Republicans (or Democrats or left-handed Christians) are idiots and morons. But, these zealots don’t realize that their friends might have similar beliefs to what is being criticized. If you want to call me a moron, please be able to substantial your claim. Otherwise, be careful about what labels you assign to others in public rants, or you could languish alone eating from tubs of toxic Cool Whip.
By the way, real whipped cream has three real ingredients: fresh cream, a sprinkle of sugar and a splash of real vanilla. Authentically delicious.
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2005 Sawyer Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. This vibrant, complex, and exquisite estate wine was a gift from the awesome Gretchen Anderson. Good friends share good wine. I should invite her over for some peach pie with real whipped cream…
Midlife Cabernet: Redefining Grandmother
My grandmothers were the quintessential matrons: they grew lush gardens, baked pies, canned peaches, crocheted doilies, and then peacefully passed away in their nineties. My life has been a bit different, and I just hope I don’t die tomorrow by getting hit by a wine truck while dancing in the street on my way to a book signing event.
My paternal grandmother never owned a driver’s license because she never needed to go anywhere. She could walk to the grocery store and post office, and she was content to sit in her rocking chair in her tidy little house. She finished crossword puzzles every day, read her Bible, and believed her life was blessed beyond measure. She was correct.
My maternal grandmother sewed dolls and grew glorious gladiolas to enter in the Jerome County Fair. She stored the numerous winning ribbons in a shoe box because she was humble, quiet, and unpretentious. Only after her death did I learn that all she wanted in life was to own a piano. I wish I could have given one to her.
Their tough example gave me a strong foundation that sustained me during the numerous personal calamities and monstrous mistakes in my life. They would be disappointed in my failures but they would be proud of me for having the courage to be independent and tenacious. I can hear them saying, “You can do it. Now get to work.”
In the blink of a wrinkled eye, I also became a grandmother. Both my children have children, and I find this fact a bit disturbing because I still think I am in my thirties. Really, now my daughter and I are about the same age. I want to pluck thirty years off the timeline and pretend the decades never happened. Denial is a powerful emotion.
Though I inherited traits and skills from my parent’s mothers, my generation is tweaking the term grandmother. My children married spouses who already had children, so I became an instant grandmother. And I’m not called Gramma. My daughter’s daughter was born in Hawaii, so I became Tutu, the Hawaiian name for grandmother..
I look at my granddaughters with wonder and worry. What will their future hold? Can they travel the world, employ their talents, and be strong in relationships? Will they treasure the self-sufficient strength of their great-great-grandmothers? Will they be able to grow a garden, bake a pie, preserve peaches, and crochet doilies? Okay, no one needs doilies anymore, but the other skills are important.
I hope they can learn from this weathered Tutu that they also can have a job, chart their own path, own a business, and challenge the boundaries. They can go beyond my grandmother’s wildest dreams, and I relish their feisty and vibrant spirit. I imagine the day when they get married and then bring me a laughing baby to rock. I think Great Tutu will be a fitting name.
I adore my little granddaughters, and we laugh together as we sing and tell great stories. I am not that adept at canning fruits and vegetables, but I can encourage them to take the path less traveled, color outside the lines, and question authority. They come from a strong heritage of tough women, and I know my grandmothers are watching over them whispering, “You can do it. Now get to work.”
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2007 Shadowbrook Cabernet Sauvignon from Walnut Creek, California. My son and daughter-in-law shared this vibrant wine in celebration of their recent anniversary. Their children – my grandchildren – know that life must be savored.
Midlife Cabernet: It’s Civil Discourse, Stupid
My friends include conservatives, liberals, Christians, agnostics, and even some confused horticulturalists. Their diversity of opinions creates a rich and lively stew of beliefs, and I enjoy the debate. Two of my best friends hold opposite political views from mine, but we respect each other’s attitudes, even though I’m right.
I’ve always read letters to the editor in the newspaper and now I scan online comments on various publications and blogs. Over the past few years, the anonymous posts have digressed from snarky to absolutely vile. I imagine some loser hunkered over a dingy computer writing “Die, you ugly moron!” and hitting the send button. Then what? Do they chuckle at the power to prove their uselessness to society?
In 1869, Charles Darwin wrote Origin of the Species and included the phrase “survival of the fittest” to argue that species adapt by natural selection with the best suited mutations becoming dominant. Since then, some tragic trick of nature reversed that theory as more people force their ignorance, hostility, and intolerance upon the rest of us. It’s difficult to celebrate diversity when the discourse is uncivil and the survivors are unfit.
Facebook provides a glimpse into the lives of my friends and associates. Sometimes I offer an opinion on provocative posts, but I usually appreciate other’s opinions and move to another conversation. And, I would rather hit my head with a hammer than get into a political debate. No one’s mind is changed and it’s a waste of time. Another fact to remember: An Internet post is there forever.
Recently I experienced an emotional event as my mother suffered a stroke. She was given 72 hours to live, and it was my obligation to prepare her funeral arrangements. Facebook provided a way to reach out to friends because I was alone during this ordeal. When I couldn’t sleep at night, I read the responses and they provided comfort like a long-distance hug.
The encouraging words came from people with opposite political and religious beliefs. For the moment, all the rhetoric didn’t matter as they reached out with genuine compassion. We always can intelligently disagree another day.
My mother miraculous survived, and again I turned to Facebook to share the news. Responses were supportive, and we all got on with our lives. Now, if we could teach this productive and positive example to the bickering, ineffective members of Congress, we might be able to save the country from impending doom.
Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 Joseph Phelps Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. A friend brought it over to share because that’s what friends do.
