My Menopausal Musings

Backpacks have a place: wide open spaces with trails for hiking; mountainsides where men and women have climbed to great heights; a handy small travel bag when going to grandma’s house for the holidays. I’m all for that. I don’t like to wear them myself, the wear and tear on my shoulders and back make them seem more like torture chambers to me, but I understand if you find them to be comfortable. Backpacks do not have a place on the busy sidewalks of New York. They do not belong on rush hour transportation. I know, I know. You love your backpack. You love the convenience of carrying your burden on your shoulders and keeping your hands free to shop and text.    What you have forgotten is that the svelte picture you have nestled away in your brain of how good you looked when you left the house couldn’t be further from the truth! Your girth has doubled. Even worse, you are completely unaware as you zip through crowds leaving crying children in your wake as your bag meet...

I've been sitting here editing pages from THANKSGIVING (the novel I'm working on) and thought I'd share the first couple of pages.... Just a little tease and perhaps a little inspiration for contributions to the Starving Artist Fund so I can finish it ;-) November 26, 2009 Rita was at a complete loss. Thanksgiving had always been her favorite day of the year and with three short syllables her daughter had driven a stake through its heart and killed the holiday forever. It was raining sideways in New York and the wind whipped between the buildings. Rain and sleet mixed with the hot tears streaming down Rita’s face. She knew where she was going and she was determined to get there before she lost her anger, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she would do when she got there. The adrenaline racing through her body was making her dizzy. Stopping to catch her breath beneath an awning at 181st Street, Rita realized she had run out of the house with her handbag but without her co...

It is date day. He calls me and I explain that I find myself in his home town. He offers to drive me home and to take me out in the city. Without hesitation I agree. So much for the mad planning of menopausal women. Frantically, I shower and dress while having a hot flash. It is August, and while my friend is also having hot flashes, her husband is very thin, never hot and has no understanding of why I am sweating, swelling, yelling, crying and gasping for breath. I have fifteen minutes to be ready. The solution? Teething rings left in the freezer from years gone by placed between and under each breast. I am just beginning to breathe normally and the doorbell rings. My friend and I are paralyzed. Her husband befuddled. Insisting that my friend stay in the kitchen – I know her nose was pressed up against the window as I left – I go to answer the door for my mystery date. He is exactly what he represented. He is young, cute and smart. Stepping out with my most vivacious self, I hopped in...