Bea Arthur is My Fashion Muse

I have an overwhelming desire to dress like Bea Arthur and menopause is entirely to blame.

Menopause is kicking my ass 19 different ways.  I counted. I should feel lucky—according to this website, it could be kicking my ass 34 different ways. But I’m having a harder time than usual looking on the bright side (#22, “Irritability,” is one of my 19 symptoms).

My biggest complaint (at the moment) is that a combination of symptoms #15, #28 and #32 is making it nearly impossible for me to get dressed every day. That's right, menopause has made me hate my clothes (and I really like clothes). Everything feels tight, itchy and generally uncomfortable. At least three times a week, this scenario plays out:

• I put on an outfit.
• It feels awful.
• Certain I've gained 15 pounds, I step on the scale.
• My weight is the same as it’s always been.
• I look in the mirror.
• The clothes look the same way they've always looked.
• I tug at them.
• I squirm uncomfortably.
• I try to find something else to wear.
• I lament my wardrobe’s shortage of downy-soft, over-sized, shapeless clothing that doesn't touch my body but is still acceptable to wear outside the house.
• I find myself coveting Bea Arthur’s wardrobe, and wishing I would gain 15 pounds so I could justify the expense of purchasing it.

(That last bullet point is a sentence you probably don’t hear every day.)

I’m just a tad on the young side for full-blown menopause, so many of my friends are not yet traveling this road. When I tell them I've entered menopause, they look at me sympathetically and ask about hot flashes and “feminine dryness,” like those are the worst things they could imagine. I have to tell you, of my 19 symptoms, hot flashes are the least of my worries. I’m a cold person and a well-timed hot flash is pretty much a dream come true for me. And it seems to me that “feminine dryness” is little more than a nuisance that could be managed with readily-available products. Someday I’ll probably have sex again and I guess I’ll find out. (Someday I will have sex again…right?)

When I tell these friends about the insufferable joint pain (#26), they say, "Isn't that just an ‘aging’ thing?” If I mention the increased anxiety (#21) they give me a blank stare. And just try telling your non-menopausal friends about #33—"Tingling Extremities." Menopause is one of those things that simply isn't discussed. It’s not polite, I suppose. But our impeccable manners have left women with no idea what to expect when entering into one of the biggest changes of our lives. Fortunately (?) for the uninitiated among you, I have a notoriously big mouth and I've never been much for manners.

If you’re not yet traveling this road, I feel it’s my duty to let you know that menopause is an asshole. An asshole who insists you dress like Bea Arthur. And sometimes yells at your kids when they don't deserve it (did I mention #19, “Irritability?”). On the bright side, though, if you can afford the wardrobe, it's super comfy. 

Rounding Up

Women lie about their age every day and I am no exception.  I do it all the time and I am completely unashamed. Yep. I brazenly and regularly lie about my age. But, flying in the face of conventional lying-about-your-age wisdom, I always “round up.”

I cannot imagine claiming to be younger than I really am. As much fun as my 20s were (and they were really fun), I was happy to turn 30. Ditto 35 and 40. And I love being 47. I’m better than I was in my 20s or 30s. Not better looking, fitter, or (sadly) any wealthier, but smarter, kinder, more compassionate. Just better.

Right about now you might be thinking this piece is all about patting myself on the back for my impressive personal growth over the years. You may even be rolling your eyes and saying to yourself, “Proud of yourself, much, Lori?” And who would blame you? But fear not. While I am fairly proud of the person I've become, that’s not why I lie about my age. Not even close.

I’m 47 years old. I’m fit and attractive and I usually manage to dress pretty cute…for a 47-year-old. But, let’s be honest, it would take some serious chutzpah to try to pass myself off as 38. Chutzpah I just don’t have. Frankly I’m a bit of a wuss when it comes to matters of my ego. What if I told you I was 38 years old and you looked surprised, in that horrified, “Whoa! You've obviously lived hard,” kind of way? What if you even snickered? Or muttered, "Seriously?" under your breath? You’d probably crush me and my wussy ego like a bug under your heel.

On the other hand, if I round up and tell you I’m 50, you may still be surprised, but probably in a “WOW! You look great!” kind of way. Then I could demur and say through lowered lashes, “Oh, go on.” (No, really. Go on.) It doesn't take a genius to see that this would be so much better than slinking away humiliated. Seriously. Rounding up is like medicine for your ego. You should try it.

In three years I may have some explaining to do at my 50th birthday bash, but for now I'm sticking with my story. At 47 years old, I am many things, a wuss and a blatant liar among them. One thing I am not, however, is a dumbass. Rounding up may be my smartest idea ever. (And I've had some really smart ideas.) What? I have!

Hope: It's Not Overdraft Protection, but It Still Might Keep You Afloat

This week I have $14 in my checking account to last until Friday. Sadly, I’m not kidding (or even exaggerating for effect as I’m known to do). The kids and I have a roof over our heads and clothes to wear. We have groceries and gas and I even have half a bottle of wine, so as long as those things hold out for a few more days, I think we’ll survive. But to say I’m stressed about money would obviously be a huge understatement. My financial struggle and the stress that goes along with it ebbs and flows, but for several years now, it has never truly subsided.

Knowing that a post here is overdue, I looked through my Drafts Folder tonight to see if there was anything salvageable in it. The title of this never-published piece from last year jumped out at me. While our circumstances have changed, much of what I felt when I was writing this is still with me today. It is, perhaps, a little too honest. It might even make you flinch and for that I’m sorry. But perhaps that’s what Perfectly Floppy Bacon does best.

Money Changes Everything

October, 2013

“How can your account be overdrawn?” he asked. He is accustomed to a six figure income and supporting only himself, a dog and a healthy golf habit. He was aghast. “I paid the entire rent. That’s $900 you normally would have paid but didn't.”

How can my account be overdrawn in spite of the fact that you generously paid the entire rent? That's simple. I start with very little. This month I paid all the bills and bought all the groceries. And because of a series of unusual expenses, I was “behind” before I even started. I can’t seem to get caught up. People get behind—at least they do in the world I live in. Single moms certainly do. We might even bounce a check occasionally and then the fees from that add to our dilemma. It can be quite a snowball effect for those of us operating at my end of the financial spectrum.

All moms make choices. I respect those moms whose choices are different from mine. I honestly do. Sometimes I even envy them. My choices allow me to pick up my kids from school, help them with their homework and cook them dinner. My choices allow me to cheer embarrassingly loud at track meets and softball games and run an elementary school Yearbook Club. My choices do not, however, allow me to earn a six-figure income…not even half that.

“But I still don’t understand how your account can be overdrawn,” he persisted. So I took a deep breath and broke it down for him.

• When it was time to pay for summer camps this year, dad didn't want to pay for the kids’ beloved Playground Camp. In all fairness, it is essentially “daycare” and the kids are getting to the age that they don’t need it. And dad’s wife is a teacher who is home for the summer. He’s right that he shouldn't have to pay for daycare so I didn't push it. But the kids love it. It feels like summer to them and it keeps them from being bored, so I sent them on my own. Four times. It may be the cheapest camp in town (thank heavens!) but four weeks for two kids still adds up. Added to my share of sleep-away camp for Ben and volleyball for Lucy, the summer price tag was steep.

• Then we moved. $300 for movers because I just couldn't bring myself to ask friends to move me a third time in five years (and then another $200 for piano movers when the first movers refused to carry my piano up the steps and into the house). New shelves and a mirror for Lucy’s room, a rug for Ben’s and countless trips to Storables in a probably-futile attempt to make a house with two children feel less chaotic for the man who’s never lived with them.

• The beginning of the school year arrived with the dreaded school supply shopping, and of course clothes and shoes for both kids. Add to that the surprisingly-large check I wrote at Back-to-Business day for Ben’s first year of middle school and the back-to-school total was larger than expected.

• Then I received a $216 dollar ticket for expired automobile tabs. I couldn't afford to renew them the moment I received the notice in the mail so I set it aside to pay with my next paycheck and promptly forgot. Did you know the ticket becomes more expensive when you’re more than two months past due? Ouch.

• And let’s not forget the “Day for Me” party I threw myself after making it through another Walk Now for Autism Speaks—on the wettest September day in Seattle history. Seriously. The wettest. How could I not have a little celebration? $30 Target jeans, $50 super-cute boots and a steak dinner that cost more than it should have. Yay me.

• Finally, the check for school photos that I forgot I wrote hit my account, as did the astronomical Cable/Internet/Phone bill I mistakenly scheduled a week too early. And unfortunately, the reimbursement check for the 40 buckets and 1,000 pounds of sand (to hold down the tents in the gale-force winds of the wettest September day in Seattle history) is taking longer than I’d hoped.

I stopped for air. He stared. Given the extremely tight budget on which my family operates, any one of these added expenses would require some recovery time. The seemingly non-stop barrage of these expenses in the last few months, however, has not allowed for any recovery. And, and, and… if you’re a single mom, you definitely understand. Hell—if you’re a parent you understand. But he did not.

And… then today I needed to rent a cello. Lucy was pee-in-her-pants excited when the school Orchestra Director recommended cello for her instrument. It was her very strong first choice. “Can we get it this weekend, mommy? Can we, please, please, please?!” Of course a cello is among the most expensive instruments to rent and it’s “my turn” as dad rented Ben’s viola for two years. So I was figuring out how to scrape together the $180 necessary to walk out the door of the music store with a rented cello, required book, rock stop, rosin and cloth. I had collected two credit cards with small amounts of available credit, a crumpled $20 bill from the bottom of my purse and $40 in ones and fives borrowed from allowance money.

When he offered to help I was touched and thrilled…until he handed me a check. He banks at a credit union and the local branch has no tellers. You can’t walk in and cash a check, which meant I would have to take that check to my own bank. As previously mentioned, my bank account is overdrawn—a situation I will remedy when I receive my reimbursement check for last weekend’s buckets and sand—but I would not be able to cash that check today with a negative balance in my account.

I debated telling him. It’s embarrassing (my broadcasting it to the entire world in this blog aside) and I felt ashamed. I remembered well a comment he had once made about someone not having $200 in his checking account and how ridiculous he found that. As you might imagine, that comment stuck with me. I really needed the money he was offering, though, and I really didn't want to disappoint Lucy, so I took a deep breath and asked him if he could give me cash instead. Then I told him why.

He said he didn't understand. Several times. Apparently he couldn't wrap his head around an overdrawn bank account. Seeing someone else’s life—really seeing it—is difficult, especially when it’s a world far removed from your own. But saying we don’t understand that world or that person’s struggle is just something we tell ourselves because we’re not comfortable admitting that we simply don’t accept it. We can all understand the concept of an overdrawn checking account, but we may not sympathize with that person. We may not feel compassion for their struggle because we simply do not relate. And even though I so badly want him to understand, I contend that there is no shame in a failure to accept, sympathize or relate. The shame lies in a failure to at least try.

When I told Lucy that he was helping us get her cello she asked me, “Don’t you guys essentially share your money?” I told her that we didn't and that many couples don’t. Later in the day she asked me who did the laundry—a random question about division of duties between the grown-ups of the house. I told her that I did the Heagler laundry but that he kept his laundry separate and did it himself. And even though Lucy thought that was weird, I didn't tell her that lots of families keep their laundry separate, because her question wasn't really about laundry at all. I told her, instead, that sometimes it took a while for families to really begin working together as a team when new members were added. She nodded her head thoughtfully and said, “I see what you mean.” Then she paused and said, “Mom?”

“What, Lucy?”

“He doesn't seem ready.”

And just like that, I received some much-needed perspective from my insightful 10-year-old. Maybe he’s just not quite ready.

I hope he will be soon.

Nearly a year has passed since I wrote that but I remember vividly how ashamed I felt. While that’s painful to remember, I’m glad I dragged it out into the light. Reading it again with fresh eyes has shown me something about myself. Something good and honest and true (and dare I say, just a little bit sparkly). I started the last sentence with, “I hope.” And of that, I feel extremely proud.

Go Ahead—Sprinkle That Sh*t Everywhere

We Heaglers appreciate a little sparkle in our lives. OK—maybe a lot. It shows up in all sorts of places. In this house, the tooth fairy leaves a little sparkle with a dollar bill under a pillow. The garden fairies once brought a jar of sparkly Goblin Repellent when we were overrun with goblins. Those same fairies later unloaded a dump truck of sparkly fairy dust on a mischievous Elf on the Shelf. It’s been rumored (and I will neither confirm nor deny) that I showered my Yearbook Club kids in glitter as part of a celebration for a job well done. The kids and I even sprinkled glitter around our new house before the new hardwoods were laid so we’d know for sure there was a hint of sparkle (and maybe a bit of magic) in this house—even if we can’t see it. We do love a little sparkle. A little everyday magic.

A few years ago, I wrote a blog post about suffering from depression and in that piece I wrote about the feeling of hanging by a thread. A wonderful friend responded by telling me that she liked what I’d done with the thread I was holding onto. She wrote, “It’s multi-strand and colorful, with a hint of glitter.” Her comment touched me deeply and made me really think about that hint of glitter, my love of a little sparkle...a little magic. And I realized that the hint of glitter my friend could see in that thread I sometimes cling to was simply a glint of “me” showing through, even in my darkest times, even in those times when I've felt practically invisible.

I started writing this blog last week. I intended to segue from this opening about a love of sparkle and belief in everyday magic to my excitement at finally finding my spirit animal—a toy bunny whose packaging proclaims, “I poop glitter!” Seriously—I couldn't make this up. See for yourself: Moxie Girlz Poopsy Pets

In my head, the piece was hilarious. How could it not be? Did I mention the glitter-pooping bunny? But I just couldn't make it work on paper and I wound up posting nothing last week (and beating myself up about it). In retrospect, though, not being able to draw a straight line from crippling depression to a glitter-pooping bunny is pretty understandable.

I planned to revisit this piece Monday night after work. And then I heard the terrible news that Robin Williams had taken his own life and a toy that poops glitter no longer seemed funny at all.

I've read a lot about Robin Williams, depression and suicide over the last few days. I cried imagining all too vividly his struggle, and winced witnessing the shock and naked grief of those who loved him. At the same time, I've been encouraged by the conversations happening about the devastation of depression and the need for open dialog, understanding and accessible treatment. And, as is frequently the case for me and countless others who suffer from depression, I turned inward, and did a lot of thinking. Which led me back to that thread, the one with the hint of glitter, to which I all too often find myself clinging.

So many of us cling to that thread. Too many. But in every single thread there is a hint of glitter—a glint of the true beauty of that person shining through, even in their darkest moments. Is it possible that the most sparkly threads are also the most slippery? The most difficult to hold?

If Robin Williams was clinging to a thread, the hint of glitter that shone through—that piece of him that we could all see—was positively luminous. It will continue to shine, in his body of work, in his children, his wife, all who loved him and the countless lives he touched. I hope his tragic death will remind us to hold on tightly to our own thread and seek help when we feel our grip slipping. That everyone we meet is fighting a battle we know nothing about. That nothing is more important than caring for one another. And that kindness doesn't cost a damn thing. We really should sprinkle that shit everywhere.

Which I suppose brings us full circle to the glitter-pooping bunny. I’m so glad I managed to work my way back to my newly-discovered spirit animal. Somehow I think Robin Williams would have approved. Maybe even laughed.

Rest in peace, Mr. Williams. Thank you for the memories and for your truly brilliant hint of glitter.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: in the US, call 1-800-273-8255 or visit
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce Que C'est

Lucy walks in her sleep. Talks too. The other night she wandered into my room as I was brushing my teeth and I could tell she was sleep-walking. When I told her to go back to bed she shrugged nonchalantly, said, “OK – as long as there aren't any more people to stab,” and casually sauntered back to her room.

I thought, “Huh, that was disturbing,” and turned to tell someone about the utterly creeptastic thing Lucy had just said while gallivanting about in her sleep. I think I actually said out loud, “Holy crap, did you hear what she...” before it dawned on me there was no one there to tell. (For a split-second, though, I waited for a reply…just in case.)

Upon realizing I had no one with whom to share this wonderfully-creepy experience, I did not burst into tears (admit it—you thought that’s what I was going to say). But I did stop and give consideration to the fact that apparently I now talk to myself and fully expect a reply. Yep. I gave that some serious thought. And yes, I considered the very real possibility that I may be straight-up crazy. While I kicked around that somewhat-uncomfortable idea it occurred to me that for the majority of my children’s’ lives there has been no one there for me to tell when the kids have said or done something fantastic (or horrendous). No one to turn to and say, “Holy crap! Did you see that?” So maybe my talking to a non-existent life partner (and fully expecting a reply) is nothing more than wishful thinking and not necessarily a rapid descent into Crazyville…right?

I felt pitiful for a few minutes before it hit me: I do have someone to tell when my kids say or do something fantastic (or horrendous). I have you. (That’s right. Sit with that thought, my friends. Are you just a little scared right now?) My village. Virtual and actual. As life partners go, y’all pretty much rule.

So…Lucy is talking in her sleep about stabbing people. It was Pirates vs. Zombies week at camp last week, but still. This is me turning to you and saying, “Holy crap, did you hear that?” Quick. Someone hold me.

My daughter may be a psycho killer, but our little chat here has made me feel better already. I love my Village People. 

Perfectly Floppy Bacon's Grand Re-Opening: Oh How I've Missed You

Hello, blank computer screen. Oh how I've missed you. (And you too, PFB readers!) Here's what's been happening.

As you may have guessed, the cue-the-orchestra, slow-motion-running-into-each-other’s-arms, Lifetime-Television-for-Women Happy Ending to which I referred in my last post turned out to be an entirely different kind of movie. Oh sure, it was still Lifetime-Television-for-Women-worthy, just not with hearts, flowers and an earnest rock ballad. This particular movie was more of a tears, heartbreak and bad country song kind of movie. Not to worry—it’s nothing I can’t work with. I just needed a minute (or six months, as it were) to make some kind of shaky peace with it and to be able to say it loud without too much pain, shame or blame (or a lot of ugly crying). Hence the radio silence. Thank you for your patience.

So here we are, the kids and I. We've picked ourselves up, moved yet again (five times in ten years—probably not a record, but a crap-ton of moving nonetheless) and adjusted our expectations. Because that’s what we do. That’s what we all do, right?

We were presented with a wonderful opportunity to live in our friends’ investment property for eight years and we jumped at the chance. Rent-control until the kids are out of high school! It’s a game-changer for us. And to top it off, we even get to oversee a remodel and make it a place we will truly love living for those eight years. The location is perfect and the kids are enjoying the independence of being able to walk to the park, friends’ houses and plenty of places to eat and hang out. Provided no one reports me to Child Protective Services for letting my kids roam the neighborhood unattended like...well…kids on summer break, I may just start believing that we are the most fortunate family ever. Of course, having the most amazing friends ever helps immensely. We Heaglers are some kind of lucky. Truly.

I know it’s been a while since we've talked, so now that you’re all caught up(ish), I thought I’d let you in on a couple of things that are on my mind (in no particular order):

• I think we Heaglers need a dog. According to the Seattle Animal Shelter, Hayden thinks it would be cool to snuggle on the couch with me: Click here to check out Hayden! Thoughts?

 And speaking of snuggling on the couch… 

• Does anyone know if there is an online dating site that caters to gracefully-aging (okay, okay—maybe just “aging”), estrogen-deficient, single-mom types? Hypothetically speaking, of course. These are just things I wonder about.

And finally, it seems only right that I should end this grand-re-opening post with a classic, PFB over-share. So, in other news...

• It has recently become abundantly clear to me why nature did not intend for puberty and menopause to exist in the same house at the same time.

Discuss amongst yourselves and we'll talk more later. Now that Perfectly Floppy Bacon is back, we’ll have plenty of time to explore these riveting topics. Yay?

That's All For Now

 I’ve lived out loud since 2008 or so. Really loud. First on Facebook, and then in my blog—I’ve shared it all. The good, the bad, the horribly embarrassing, terribly sad, hilarious, magic, tragic and even the appallingly ugly. I’ve told you all about it. In real time. Parenting successes and epic failures. Bankruptcy, losing a business, then a house.  A lifetime of clinical depression. Yep. I told you about that too. And I told you about the fairies in our garden and elves on our shelves. Snowmen who wear sundresses and kids writing “I love you” in the dust on the end tables. There’s precious little in my life that’s gone untold in recent years.

I even dragged you through the muck of an on-again, off-again, can’t-live-without-him, love-of-a-lifetime relationship, from rocky start, through a heart-wrenching break-up and finally to the cue-the-orchestra, slow-motion-running-into-each-other’s-arms, Lifetime-Television-for-Women Happy Ending. You cheered, you cried, you bought me a drink, you mailed me a bunch of panties, you offered to kick him in the shins and you cheered again.

You’ve stuck with me through it all. I couldn’t have asked for a more kind, caring and generous community in which to live out loud all these years. I hope I’ve returned even a little of what you’ve given me.

But as much as I’ve truly loved living out loud with you—sharing my life and having a glimpse of yours—I need a minute.  I just can’t let you look at me right now. I can't. I hope that makes some kind of sense.

Please stay in touch. E-mail me. Call. Tell me about the good things in your life. Let me help when things go wrong. Show me your pictures. Keep me in the loop.

I'm here. I care. And I'll see you soon.