drama mama

Well, I guess it's time to edit the ole blog header- it looks like I'm gonna need to add yet another "m" to my ongoing Mag Mama madness. Not only is yours truly bravely going beyond motherhood and mid-life, but now this poor gal has got a big sloppy helping of menopause on her saggy Dixie plate. Yep, it is official, friends. As if my granny underwear and Icy Hot patches weren't bad enough, I have been diagnosed with "the change". Lovely. And ya know..only a man would call it that. Change is something you get back when you buy a candy bar, gentlemen. Nah...this is more like the bloody jowls of Cerberus gnashing at my heels with O Fortuna on the soundtrack. In high def, blu-ray and Dolby.

Yes, Mama has paid a little visit to Six Flags Over Manic Mountain and it has nothing to do with funnel cake and good times. I've boarded a scary estrogenic roller coaster that's leaving me holding on to the t-bar for dear life, refusing to John Hancock my husband's divorce papers and hoping like hell no one will call DHS. And it could not have happened at a worse time. I am fully booked with school fundraisers, flash cards and play dates. That's what I get for for being so cocky with Mommy Nature, I guess. I thought I was sooo slick..pulling the ole reproductive switcheroo, high fiving it and doing the "dusty old eggs still got it white girls overbite" dance. Yeah, right. Little did I know. Many of my pals have wisely already been there and done that in the rug rat dept., and are now getting to reward themselves with things like the Sunday paper, mani-pedis..the Bravo channel. Or at least are able to clamor their way through the hormone hell by themselves in a peaceful empty nest. Meanwhile, I'm wiping noses, crying over Campbells commercials and having hot flashes at the Jump Zone.

Along with snarfing black cohosh and locking the liquor cabinet, I am doing everything I can to ride this elevated luteinizing wave without going postal on somebodies ass. I joined a local gym, only to have my worst nightmare realized- Fox News and ESPN on the monitors. I just can't seem to win these days. It is here I spend Monday through Friday a.m., flat on my back, puffing away, doing crunchy after crunchy with the American flag waving above me and Metallica shakin' it on the speakers. This morning, my gut was so frigging full of lactic acid, I almost had to grab Old Glory to pull myself up. But I refrained and 15 minutes later I was back up on my feet doing a set of excruciating reps on what appeared to be a love swing, but realized after watching some really hunky guy who could have been my son, that it was just for abs.

The good news is that my pig-tailed babies are both ensconced in school now, acclimating well and are as happy as clams. It's a shame that Mama's three hour stretch of time to herself has turned out to be on the painful, achy side. It sure would be nice to maybe sit back..sip a latte, have uninhibited sex with my husband or even amble around a mall. Well, now, now....I guess I can and will be able to do all the above..eventually, but first things first- I have to open up a can of whoop ass on the Pillbury Doughboy who has has seemingly stolen my identity.