menopausebarbees.com

The Devil in Me

Menopausebarbies Germany — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 08:08:16 GMT

The Devil in Me

This post is a tribute to the smile and the laughter of my dear Aunt who passed away this week. I know that she wants me (and all of us) to keep smiling…

In the 24-hour time notation, it is 23:30 Halloween night.

That’s 11:30 P.M. to my friends in the U.S., Australia, Canada, (excepting Quebec), India, Iran, the Philippines, Pakistan, the United Kingdom, Spain and some Latin American countries.

And I have the devil in me.

It’s nothing but the devil. And maybe some goblins.

I’ve just come in from Amy Antin’s concert (she was in the menopausebarbee spotlight on Oct 16, 2011). Her sold out performance was just great by the way.

Amy has nothing to do with this.

By all rights, I should at this very moment be organizing my desk so that when I roll out of bed and face it first thing in the morning it won’t put me off or scare me, and I should also be checking my calendar to see what’s on for tomorrow so I can dream about it in my sleep tonight (some of my best ideas come at that “3 A.M PeePee Shuffle Hour” (October 8, 2011). But no, I’m sitting here trying to exorcise myself of this demon…of a chocolate bar. With nuts.

Mind you, this is not some special holiday chocolate or dark chocolate that eaten in moderation is claimed to actually be good for you. No! This is just a hunk of straight up raggedy no named store bought chocolate coagulated around some damn nuts. And I am lovin’ it. I literally savor every single chocolaty crunchy bite. I alternate between chewing it outright and getting full satisfaction at once and letting the chocolate slowly dissolve in my mouth and then getting busy with the nuts.

I do this even though everything about it is so wrong: the late hour, the calories, the guilt, the way it makes me smile…

But you know, I’m one of those who tries to find the good in everything. I know for certain that I will go to the gym tomorrow. And though that won’t rectify all my thighful, sighful sins, it will help. I choose to believe that it will help and therefore it will. And just to help myself out a little bit more, I’m going to sign off of this blogpost and get directly on the net and order a body shaper. Maybe I’ll order two.

After all, I may be nutty in love with chocolate and nuts but I am no fool.

Love, Loss and Legacy

menopausebarbies — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 17:14:23 GMT

I lost someone I loved this week.
My Aunt...
I LOVED her smile, her wit, her twinkle in her eye, her quick comebacks, her honesty, hysterical humor,and her ability to say what it is, is what it is. She had a sing song way of saying That's right when she was in concurrence.
She loved sports, and in the family we would bet on games. She stood by her team, even if they were a major underdog. My Aunt had a hard work ethic and her energy seemed endless. She was the first one to RSVP for any family celebration, even though she lived in Portland which is a three hour drive from most of us in Seattle.
I loved her faith, her loyalty and the way she deeply loved her family.
I've LOSS the ability to touch her, smell her, hear her, laugh with her, and be consoled by her, but her LEGACY will continue to live in me and she will always be in my heart as that is where I keep my valuables.
Funny how as we get older, our menopausebarbee eyesight gets worse, but some things we see more clearly. As I said goodbye to my beautiful Aunt, I clearly saw the roots and fruits of my family tree and how precious the gift of a loved one is. As I write this, it just occured to me, It's All Saints Day. Heaven just got another angel, That's Right!

Menopausebarbee Monday Spotlight on Robin Goldsby

Menopausebarbies Germany — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 07:00:20 GMT

The Menopausebarbee Spotlight Today is on Robin Goldsby.

I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Goldsby at my first meeting with our American International Women of Cologne’s writing group. She is not only an extremely talented composer/pianist, she is a fierce writer. I’ve read all three of her books and Robin has ‘the gift indeed’. She is inspiring and knowledgeable and has a wicked sense of humor. We usually sign off our mails with “HOT LOVE.”

She and her husband John are raising 2 very fine young adults: Julia 15 and Curtis 18. Julia and my niece are the daughters I didn’t give birth to. Both she and her brother are kind, well rounded and respectful people; musically talented as well as sports oriented. Aside from piano playing, singing and acting, Julia is also a budding photographer.

I asked Robin what advice she would give Julia as she prepares for her big crossover into womanhood.

She said, “The funny thing is, I feel like I'm learning way more from her than she is from me—Julia is one of those kids with a very wise and very old soul. She has shown me how to hold on to the magic in everyday life, to laugh when I can, to cry if I want to, and to remember to be kind to myself. She also tells me on a regular basis that I absolutely do NOT look fat.”

Love thy mother as thyself. Robin, you’ve done something right along the way! HOT LOVE!

Discover a bit about Robin in her bio here and then enjoy a few excerpts from her latest book, Waltz of the Asparagus People”.

Robin Meloy Goldsby is the author of Piano Girl and RhRobin Meloy Goldsby is the author of Piano Girl and Rhythm. Her thirty-year career as a musician has taken her from roadside dives to posh New York City venues and exclusive resorts, and on to the European castles and concert stages where she now performs. Robin has three solo piano recordings to her name—Twilight, Somewhere in Time, and Songs from the Castle—and has appeared on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered and Piano Jazz with Marian McPartland. Robin is a Steinway Artist. She is also the author and composer of Hobo and the Forest Fairies, a musical for children recorded by WDR (Westdeutscher Rundfunk) in Germany. As a lyricist Goldsby has penned songs for Till Brönner, Curtis Stigers, Jessica Gall, Robert Matt, Jeff Cascaro, and Peter Fessler. In 2010 her collaboration with singer/composer Joyce Moreno, Slow Music, received a Latin Grammy nomination for Best Brazilian Album.

Robin currently lives outside of Cologne, Germany, with her husband—jazz bassist John Goldsby—and their two teenage children. Waltz of the Asparagus People: The Further Adventures of Piano Girl is Goldsby’s third book and first to be translated into German (Walzer der Spargelmenschen).

You can visit Robin Meloy Goldsby’s web page at www.goldsby.de. To hear Robin’s interviews on All Things Considered and Piano Jazz with Marian McPartland, please go to www.npr.org/artists.

What to Wear

From Waltz of the Asparagus People: The Further Adventures of Piano Girl

Excerpt courtesy of Bass Lion Publishing

A middle-aged American woman playing the piano at a castle in Germany has legitimate wardrobe concerns. Most cocktail dresses and evening gowns are designed for chichi events that involve nothing more strenuous than posing in a corner with a tilted head, a shy-sly Princess Di smile, and a fluted champagne glass. They are cut of silk and velvet, feature beaded panels, and often include ruching that slips, slides, and snags if the wearer dares to inhale, laugh, or eat a meatball.

It might look easy, but playing the piano for hours at a time involves an athletic prowess more often associated with trapeze artists and archers. We swing and sway, we remain statue-still while we focus our minds and bodies, we stretch, and we leap without a net when necessary. Imagine one of the Flying Zucchinis performing in high heels and a full-length evening gown with a fishtail skirt and a jewel-encrusted top that chafes her underarms. Treacherous. Or what if William Tell had been forced to shoot that apple from his son’s head while an annoying puffed sleeve with seed-pearl embroidery slipped from one shoulder? Poor little Walter would have wound up with an arrow in his thigh. Or worse.

It might be a niche market, but really, someone should come up with a line of gowns for performing female musicians. Something with a little pizzazz, a little Lycra, and a lot of draping.

“Well,” says my friend Amy. “Except for the pizzazz part, that would be a burqa.” She plays the guitar and has her own wardrobe issues.

I pause for a moment and think about a cocktail pianist wearing a burqa.

“A burqa with bling,” I say.

“Perfect,” she says.

My Wardrobe: A Brief History

Nantucket

Back in the seventies I loved to dress like Barbie. When I was eighteen I wore tube tops and Dolly Buster halters combined with see-through chiffon skirts so short they had matching panties. They were called Sizzlers. Bad enough to go to school like this, but I was showing up for cocktail piano gigs in these getups. Because I was eighteen and on a budget, I also wore secondhand prom dresses to work—not the prim and proper Little Bo Peep gowns popular with the nice Catholic girls, but hooker-hottie designs intended to make a perfectly healthy teenage pianist look like one of Gangsta Fatboy’s groupies ready to take on the band.

I favored one dress—an electric-blue sateen-spandex thing—that was cut down to here and up to there. It threatened to expose my left breast every time I reached for the bass notes. Did this bother me? No. I learned to play while yanking at the bodice of the dress, wondering why five or six drunken sailors crowded around the piano and stuffed money in my tip jar every time I pounded out “I Feel the Earth Move.” I lunged for the keys and actually believed I had a loyal group of seafaring, gin-guzzling, Carole King–loving fans. But now I know it was the blue dress. They yelled for more. I kept going. In a weird way, that dress taught me how to play. So I suppose it was good for something.

I wore frosted lip gloss and a drugstore fragrance called Wind Song by Prince Matchabelli because my high-school boyfriend saved his money and gave me a bottle for graduation. I decided it would be my signature scent. Forever.

Everything is forever when you’re eighteen.

New York City: The Early Years

In the eighties I dashed from one Manhattan location to another, covering lunches, cocktail hours, and late-night piano shifts in hotels that catered to tourists wearing swollen white tennis shoes with lightning bolts on the sides. When I got to know a high-class call girl named Jennifer who worked the hotel bar sporting a stretchy blue dress similar to mine, I dropped the Happy Ho look and entered a new era of Piano Girl fashion—a makeover inspired by my newfound ability to buy dresses made by companies other than JCPenney.

I developed a fondness for Betsey Johnson, Calvin Klein, and Isaac Mizrahi. I hardly ever paid retail for these beautiful things—I bought them from a member of the Marriott Marquis housekeeping staff who set up shop in a hotel ladies’ room in the toilet stall for the handicapped. She sold her hot-off-the-truck garments by hanging them on rails inside the stall. I shopped at Stall for the Handicapped on my breaks. Maria was a stellar saleswoman, and it was hard to beat the prices.

I remember a bright yellow silk coat I bought from her. It fell to the floor in fragile layers and made me feel like a butterfly when I flitted across the cavernous Marriott lobby. But at the piano the fabric tangled around my elbows and twisted around my knees. I looked like a crumpled piece of birthday-party gift wrap with a head and hands.

Although I hadn’t yet succumbed to support hose or underpants with stretchy tummy panels, I did begin to wear a well-constructed bra. Strap ’em down. During this phase I began searching for the perfect strapless bra, a mission that continues to this day. Structural engineers know how to hold up multiple floors of a building with one set of well-placed suspension cables, so you’d think they could design a comfortable strapless bra for a pianist. But structural engineers don’t have to sit at a Steinway playing arpeggios while wearing an armpit-exposing camisole in a delicate shade of taupe. I doubt that many of them even know what taupe is, which is okay because they have more important tasks.

The thing is, no one forced me to dress this way. It was a choice. I loved dressing up, I loved shopping, I loved leaping out of taxis in my jeans and sneakers and running to the ladies’ room with my gig bag strapped over my shoulder. I never carried music or set lists or sound equipment. Instead, I brought along a collapsible evening gown in a festive color—raspberry! mango!—and a tissue-thin scarf I could throw over my shoulders when the meat-locker air conditioner kicked on in the middle of my second set. I also carried two pairs of high heels, knowing that my pedal foot would start to ache a few hours into the gig and I would want to change shoes. One pair of golden sandals, purchased on sale at Bergdorf Goodman in 1984, has been with me for twenty-five years. They still hurt. They’re still in my gig bag. They are the only things from that part of my life that fit, so I cling to them, thinking they’ll march me back to my twenties if I ever need to return. They are the Piano Girl version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, twin metallic talismans that remind me of home.

The accessory pocket of my gig bag held glittery barrettes, rhinestone clips, and sparkly pins and necklaces from Grandma Curtis, all of them offering a pain- and risk-free way to smarten an outfit while reminding me of her. Before she died she had packed all of her costume jewelry in a white cardboard box. “These things are for Robin,” her note said. “She’s the only one crazy enough to wear them.” After she was gone I would play her favorite song—“Theme from Love Story”—and feel the weight of her fake-topaz bracelet circling my wrist. Shalimar was my fragrance. Spicy, flashy, a little too expensive, but very grown-up. Grandma Curtis would have loved it.

New York City: The Final Years

For several years my closet resembled a black hole. I became a reverse negative of myself—blonder hair, darker clothes, skinnier body. I was nobody’s trophy wife, but away from the piano I looked the part—half artiste, half social X-ray. I entered my minimalist stage, favoring gowns that didn’t deviate from the color palette of, say, a bruise.

New York City was full of paper-thin women in black crepe dresses. I wanted to be one of them and blend into the gallery-going museum-hopping chic-but-trendy kir-sipping crowd—but, with a grand piano in front of me, I never quite fit in. I hid behind my hair and accessorized my outfits with items from Grandma’s cardboard box. I discovered her clip earrings with dark stones—polished hunks of jet and deep-blue faux sapphire that suited my wardrobe and my mood.

I wore Chanel No. 5 because it smelled the way I felt. There, but not really. I didn’t believe in forever anymore. I tossed the scarves. They were driving me crazy, the way they kept slipping off and falling into fabric puddles at my feet.

I learned to despise hyphenated fashion terms like peep-toe, demi-cup, semi-gloss, push-up, and sling-back when I discovered that all of these things not only looked tacky-tacky, they hurt-hurt. I rearranged my closet, getting rid of anything with ruffles, sequins, bright colors, or feathers. I wanted plain and simple. I wanted people to stop looking and start listening. I wanted loose and light and noncommittal, preferably in a medium-weight silk shantung, with sleeves. I wanted to disappear into a midnight-blue piano mist.

Then I fell in love, an event that called for a new look. I bought an Anna Sui bridal minidress that I could also wear to piano jobs, minus the giant veil. Color returned to my wardrobe. I stopped disappearing and decided it was okay to be both seen and heard.

Forever made a comeback.

Bergisch Gladbach, Germany

Long before I began playing at Schlosshotel Lerbach, I spotted a ball skirt in the window of the Cologne Laura Ashley store. I dragged my family into the store so I could touch the skirt. Pale pink roses were embroidered on the rich crème silk, and three underlayers of silk and tulle gave the garment a gentle poof. It was the perfect skirt for, say, a lunch date in eighteenth-century Versailles. Not exactly optimal for a day trip to the Cologne Zoo, which was the extent of my social life in the late nineties. I had taken four years off from piano gigs in upscale hotels, opting instead for babies and writing at home. Rewarding, but lonely. My glamorous wardrobe, a size too small and several years out of style, sat in the back of my closet. I claimed not to miss the dress-up routine, but I couldn’t explain the sadness I felt whenever I caught sight of all those pretty things, gossamer souvenirs of a past I was happy to have escaped.

In an act of kindness I shall never forget, my husband waited for the end-of-season sale, sneaked back to Laura Ashley, and bought that skirt for me. Two weeks later, the Schlosshotel Lerbach director invited me to play at the castle. It was almost as if he knew I had the right outfit. I wore the skirt, and the maître d’, a lovely man named Monsieur Thomann, tossed pink rose petals on the piano. I’ve been there ever since. I still have the Laura Ashley skirt, along with a large collection of formal dresses purchased on sale over the last decade. They are beautiful things, but decidedly uncomfortable.

My pianist friend Robin Spielberg told me that a grand-piano pedal once ate her ball gown. I never really believed her until it happened to me. The bottom half of a full-length gown can easily become prey to a piano’s pedal system. One moment you’re fine, the next thing you know—schwoop!—you’re being sucked into the piano. And the more you pedal, the further in you go. The only choice is to rip the skirt out of the pedal, accept the damage, and soldier on with the music.

The older I get, the more I consider how nice it would be to get away from all of this twisting, pinching, and gapping and wear, say, a bathrobe to work. Or at least a ball gown cut like a bathrobe. I remember one pianist in New York City—let’s call her Sandy—who got in trouble for wearing a Statue of Liberty outfit, complete with headpiece. It was hard to make a bad wardrobe choice in mid-1980s Manhattan, but Sandy’s caftan and spiked crown caused a minor uproar with the Marriott management. The other Piano Girls and I laughed at the time. What was she thinking?

Now I wonder if Sandy was on to something. I play at a castle. I could, if I wanted to, wear a tiara, preferably something tasteful with very large emeralds. It would draw attention away from my body, which I could then drape in a velvet cape or an ermine-trimmed robe. I’d wear relaxed-fit pants under the cape, along with an expensive support bra capable of sequestering the twins during those bass-note lunges. So far, my fear of looking like Queen Elizabeth has stopped me from following through on this idea. Even Grandma Curtis, lover of all things sparkling and bright, drew the line at wearing tiaras. Plus my teenage daughter would never talk to me again if I started wearing a crown to work.

Fact: I now spend more money on undergarments than I spend on dresses. Ball gowns, with their nipped waists and tight bodices, require major foundation help. Do not get me started on Spanx, those flesh-colored medieval instruments of torture meant to smooth out the mature figure. Other women swear by them. They make me feel like a stuffed sausage—a very mature stuffed sausage—and that’s not a great thing when I’m trying to make music. “If you look good you feel good” does not apply to a fifty-year-old woman who plays the piano for a living. If I feel good, I am probably wearing my Ultimate Pajamas, a sweat suit, or a potato sack. Nobody feels good sitting at the piano in a skintight satin dress with a boned corset—unless, of course, she is eighteen, oblivious to pain, and wearing Wind Song eau de toilette.

Which leaves me with my present-day wardrobe dilemma. Shall I chuck the fancy gear and start dressing like a man? A reliable tuxedo would be a welcome relief after so many years of death by evening gown. I can feel it coming on, another wardrobe makeover—this one, finally, focused on comfort.

Grandma Curtis will continue to provide her glitter-girl accessories. But I shall wear lovely suits in lightweight wool, with loose-fitting pants and non-clinging jackets. I’ll select silken blouses in jewel tones and lingerie that’s soft and non-constricting.

And the Bergdorf Goodman golden sandals? They will stay in my gig bag, polished and ready to go, just in case I have another change of heart. They’d even look good with a burqa.

Hustle Bustle Peace

Menopausebarbies Germany — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 08:15:56 GMT

Hustle Bustle Peace

I was hustling, my mind bustling as I hurried home from taking care of some thing or other yesterday early evening. I was certain that the minute I opened my apartment door, kicked off my shoes, shed my coat, ran down the steps to my office and dropped my purse , I would begin to relax and find some inner quiet and peace. I hurried faster. I couldn’t wait.

Suddenly I saw myself staring up at the majesty of St. Gereon’s Basilica which is located two streets from my apartment. It is one of twelve great churches in Cologne that were built in the Romanesque style. Most of the present building dates from the Romanesque period, beginning in 1067 (!)

The doors were open. I have wanted to go inside since I don’t know how long—I don’t pass this way everyday and so I did.

Peace and quiet can wait I thought.

I entered and immediately became embosomed in the silence of this Roman Catholic Church, so much so, that I thought I could hear the few candles that were lit, flicker. I took a seat in a pew in the nave beneath the great dome, sat back and exhaled. The lighting was dim adding to the mystery and wonder of it all: sculptures, paintings, mosaics of Samsun losing his strength after getting his hair cut, David and Goliath, murals…

After looking around for a time, I proceeded to wear God out, praying for those I know and love and for those that I don’t. He is used to this from me by now.

Feeling much calmer than when I first stepped inside, I finished my conversation, stood and was drawn towards the sarcophagus of this church’s namesake, St. Gereon and the accompanying two tombs of his fellow martyrs. St. Gereon was a Roman solider from Egypt who was beheaded for his faith on this site in the 3rd century. The tombs are gated off so that one isn’t able to touch them. No doubt a good thing, but frustrating for me as I’m the one always setting off the alarms in museums because I can’t resist touching the wondrous relics.

I walked around and marveled a good half hour in the church. By the time I continued on home, my body and my mind had calmed down. Way down.

Hustle, Bustle, Peace. Somebody should invent a game and name it this. Only rule is you have to stay relaxed after you win the game…

You can visit St. Gereon’s Basilica yourself. There are several videos on youtube: St. Gereon’s Basilica in Koln. Enjoy.

How Do You Define Success?

menopausebarbies — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 16:43:59 GMT

If you look up Success in Webster's Dictionary, you might find this definition: The favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors

Hmmm, I have always defined success personally as Peace and Piece
That is Peace of Mind, Peace of Health, Peace of Wealth, Peace of Giving, Peace of my Loved ones and Piece of Time to Enjoy it all!

Last night, I watched in awe as Barbara Walters interviewed the super rich- 3 Billionaires who seem to have got it all right! Their rags to riches stories were as fascinating as the lives of luxury they now lead...

A clown with a dream- The creator of Cirque du Soliel
Tony Hseih - The brains behind Zappos
John Paul Dejoria Homeless to Hair Care Mogul
Lynn Tilton- A menopausebarbee who buys up struggling companies and turns them to diamonds

The message that kept resonating in all of their stories was that success comes from fulfilling your passions.

So many of us are handicapped by analysis paralysis. The fears of the "what ifs", and what others will think. Feel the fear and do it anyway. As a menopausebarbee, I have come to learn that what my daddy said was true- If you don't do something, only one things for sure
Ain't a G'damn thing gonna happen!
Lynn Tilton made a comment that struck me - You can talk about it or do it.

So today, I will leave with one of my favorite quotes, "Success only comes before work in the dictionary."

Now get out there and do it and define your own success!

Think Pink All Year!

menopausebarbies — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 16:06:20 GMT

As October nears an end, I always grateful that the month's spotlight is focused on Breast Cancer Awareness. I have had far too many menopausebarbees battle this -so, let's remember to Think Pink All Year and pass this along!

About 136 former NFL cheerleaders got together to do a dance routine to
benefit "Susan G. Komen for the Cure" (Breast Cancer). Each time
someone views the video, United Healthcare will make a $.10 donation to
the Komen organization. Their goal was to get a million hits, which
lead to $100K raised. Now, at over 3.5M views, if they hit 5M, they’ll raise another $50K and

8M views will add another $100K!
Please can you take a moment to watch this 4 minute video - and, just as
important, pass this link onto your network of friends, family and
colleagues? It benefits a very important cause!

Thanks for helping!

www.KomenPhiladelphia.org/Video

To My Sisters

Menopausebarbies Germany — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 08:56:04 GMT

I received an email yesterday; its contents are below.

It’s from Rosita Robinson-Berner, one of my dearest sisters that I’ve known since we started out together at Seattle University. I have treasured our friendship since its infancy—unbeknownst to us, we were in fact still just babies then.

Over the years, life’s offerings, temptations and dares have propelled us in differing directions. In fact a year may go by and we may not hear each other’s voices, but when we do take the telephone to speak, it is as if we have just finished speaking an hour or two before.

It’s a love that reaches down to the core. I love you Ro!!

To my Sisters!

A young wife sat on a sofa on a hot humid day,
drinking iced tea and visiting with her mother.

As
they talked about life, about marriage, about the

responsibilities of life and the obligations of

adulthood, the mother clinked the ice cubes in her

glass thoughtfully and turned a clear, sober glance

upon her daughter.

'Don't forget your sisters,' she advised, swirling

the tea leaves to the bottom of her glass. 'They'll

be more important as you get older. No matter how

much you love your husband, no matter how much you

love the children you may have, you are still going

to need sisters. Remember to go places with them now

and then; do things with them.'

'Remember that 'sisters' means ALL the women.

Your girlfriends, your daughters, and all your other

women relatives too. 'You'll need other women. Women

always do.'

What a funny piece of advice!' the young woman

thought. Haven't I just gotten married?

Haven't I just joined the couple-world? I'm now a

married woman, for goodness sake! A grownup! Surely

my husband and the family we may start will be all I

need to make my life worthwhile!'

But she listened to her mother. She kept contact

with her sisters and made more women friends each

year. As the years tumbled by, one after another,

she gradually came to understand that her mother really

knew what she was talking about. As time and nature

work their changes and their mysteries upon a woman,

sisters are the mainstays of her life.

After more than 50 years of living in this world,

here is what I've learned:

THIS SAYS IT ALL:

Time passes.

Life happens.

Distance separates.

Children grow up.

Jobs come and go.

Love waxes and wanes.

Men don't do what they're supposed to do.

Hearts break.

Parents die.

Colleagues forget favors.

Careers end.

BUT.........

Sisters are there, no matter how much time and how

many miles are

between you. A girl friend is never farther away

than needing her can reach.

When you have to walk that lonesome valley and you

have to walk it by yourself, the women in your life

will be on the valley's rim, cheering you on,

praying for you, pulling for you, intervening on

your behalf, and waiting with open arms at the

valley's end.

Sometimes, they will even break the rules and walk

beside you....Or come in and carry you out.

Girlfriends, daughters, granddaughters,

daughters-in-law, sisters, sisters-in-law, Mothers,

Grandmothers, aunties, nieces, cousins, and extended

family: all bless our life!

The world wouldn't be the same without women, and

neither would I. When we began this adventure called

womanhood, we had no idea of the incredible joys or

sorrows that lay ahead. Nor did we know how much we

would need each other.

Every day, we need each other still. Pass this on

to all the women who help make your life meaningful.

I just did. Short and very sweet.

And a love that reaches down to the core …

Happy Campers

menopausebarbies — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:54:25 GMT

Sleeping bag, water bottle, flashlight, layered clothes, sack lunch, pillow, rain slicker, snugly soft animal- all checked! Camp , here she comes.! My ten year old daughter, Taryn left for her school's annual 5th grade Camp yesterday. This is a signature defining moment for the kids at her school - 4 days away from their families- no cell phones, and no parental contact! As we packed Taryn for this journey, her dad, grandma, brother and I all wrote love notes and snuck them into her duffle bag. Just thoughts to tell her how we would miss her presence this week. We would miss the laughter that she fills our house with, the hogging of the t.v, the I Pad, the crashing in our bed, demanding majority time at dinner conversation and all the menacing things a ten year old can do to get on your nerves daily, but you miss desperately when they are gone.
Taryn has always been an independent spirit. While some suffer from separation anxiety, Taryn embraces every new experience. I really believe she will fair well this week. She has the gift of making the best out of even difficult situations. I'm sure she will be a Happy Camper.

During my son's same trip to Camp 8 years ago, on arrival, one of his friends broke down outside the mess hall. I'll call him, Leo. Fits of crying and rage were not comforted by the teachers and parent chaperons. Leo was miserable all week. He sulked, did not participate in camp fire games, talent shows or the rock climbing challenge. I am pleased to report that he stuck it out. He really had no choice. Years later, we have laughed with Leo about his behavior. He has grown into an extremely confident, independent, talented young man who is now well adjusted and enjoying life.

But as I dropped my daughter off, I thought back 8 years ago about Leo. I looked at the 70 plus some kids and thought- who would melt-down? Like Leo, we all go through the changes in life -puberty to young adult hood like middle age to menopause. These changes may be at times, exhausting, hard work, and scary. We can fight it, but at the end change is gonna come. Like Leo, we really don't have a choice!

So, Tylenol pm, Ambien, Celexa, exercise, hot java, enjoy friends, have a glass of wine, go for a walk- check, check check them all off and find a way to embrace even the most difficult challenges! Remember to Live, Laugh and Love Everyday and you too will be a Happy Camper!

TLC

Menopausebarbies Germany — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 06:10:55 GMT

I’ve just come across a new app for our iPhones that I want to share with all our readers. You have to be 17 years old to be eligible to download it, so I'm sure most of us reading this blogspot will qualify.

It's called the Your Man Reminder App and it's available at the iTunes store. Get some tips on some 'TLC' and share it with all your lady friends, loves and acquaintances. It’s free!

Hair Peace

menopausebarbies — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 14:25:08 GMT

This Spotlight Menopause Monday, I want to introduce you to a stunning woman named Jamie. I am letting her share her story from her website below. I call it Hair Peace- Jamie defines finding Peace in every step of her journey and is living proof that hair is not our only crown and glory, but bald is beautiful too! For more info visit www.alopeciasupport.org

My name is Jamie, and I have been a licensed hairstylist of 20 years.

Styling hair is my passion. I believe styling is a way to enhance a person’s natural beauty, which I enjoy very much. 16 years ago after a life threatening, stressful situation with my daughter, I encountered something that would affect my own personal beauty—a condition called alopecia.

Alopecia Aerata is considered an autoimmune condition, in which the immune system, which is designed to protect the body from foreign invaders such as viruses and bacteria, mistakenly attacks the hair follicles, the tiny cup-shaped structures from which hairs grow. This can lead to hair loss on the scalp and elsewhere.

I first noticed my hair was shedding in 1994 after the birth of my daughter. In 1998, I found the first bald spot at the nape of my neck which would consistently “grow in and fall out”. My hair loss would move to different areas of my head and scalp. In 2000, I began to lose more hair and to find bigger bald spots throughout my head. From 2000 to 2003, my hair began to fall out even more. I would wake up and look at my head and it looked like someone took an eraser and erased the hair off my scalp. My hair appeared to be clean shaven sporadically throughout my head. Even my eyebrows had bald spots as well. I was in shock and devastated! I was diagnosed with alopecia in 2004.

I was very uncomfortable going places for the most part; I stayed at home and tried to stay away from large crowds. One day, I can remember going to church and wanting to sit in the back. I didn’t want anybody sitting behind me because I was afraid they might be looking at my hair. Out in the public I would think that people were staring and looking at my bald spots. I would constantly look into my pocket mirror to make sure that I hadn’t accidentally wiped-off my “drawn on” eyebrows. I always felt nervous, ashamed and unattractive.

When I would get dressed in the morning I would put my makeup on while keeping my headscarf on my head, so I would not have to look at myself or the bald patches in my head that would freak me out. Some nights I would cry myself to sleep and pray that while I was sleeping my head scarf would not fall off of my head. I didn’t want my daughter to come into my room and see my head. I would walk around the house “day in and day out” feeling like a prisoner in my own home. Even my family and clients did not know what I was going through – my own masquerade. All the wigs, scarves and hats were very uncomfortable for me to wear. I would say to my self, “Jamie you are a hairstylist and you can’t even fix yourself.”

For years I slipped in and out of depression and anxiety-induced panic attacks. The doctors put me on an antidepressant medicine resulting in both episodes of weight gain and weight loss. I had no peace on the inside of me so I asked God what is the purpose of me going through this because my hair is my glory.

I remember doing an interpretive dance at a wedding and praying that my wig would not fall off my head.

I shied away from men saying to myself “no man would want a bald headed woman.” My biggest fear came true. I met a guy who I went out with on a few dates. During those times, he would always compliment me on how nice my hair looked. So one day, I said to him “this is not my hair.” He looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. He said, “What do you mean?” I have a condition called alopecia, and of course, he had never heard of it before. I explained to him the basics on the disease and that it was not contagious. Consequently, he was unable to cope and we parted ways.

I was tired of hiding from my self and those who knew me. I figured out my identity and self worth was not in my hair. In June of 2006, I gained the courage to shave the remaining hair from my head. And now in confidence I am able to wear a completely bald head. Now I am able to embrace who I am and begin the journey on the long road to a personal and spiritual healing.

Currently I am walking in freedom and fulfilling part of my purpose to “empower, support, and encourage individuals living with alopecia”.

Puberty Never Trumps Menopause!

menopausebarbies — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 16:05:23 GMT

I kept a diary from the time I received one for my 9th birthday until I was 29 years old. I literally wrote in it EVERYDAY. It was the one special birthday gift I looked forward to annually and it became an extension of my being. My diaries were such a part of my normal routine, like brushing my teeth, nightly, I relished writing and recapturing the days activities.

I enjoy visiting those old journals every now and then. Especially the ones where I have to remind myself that as my dear friend, Cecilia, pointed out, my daughter's puberty can't trump my beginning menopause. When I reflect on where I was at her tender age of 10, I am more patient as I know I was just as challenging for my mother. I was reading an old journal the other day and was reminded of the time in my 7th grade class at St. Therese, I had become the class clown. Full of myself, sitting in the back of the class, telling jokes, the principal Sr. Sheila was subbing and had had enough of me. I was trying to come up with a better excuse to tell my parents why D stood for Dana on my final Social Studies grade. I had already been banned from going to the Brother's Johnson concert for refusing to wear a rain coat. Even though it was a blustery rainy night, I refused to cover up my hot burgundy ensemble with a hideous rain coat. I was astounded as Uncle Boo drove my cousin Lori to the show and left me! There wasn't much more they could take away from me, I reasoned and shrugged it off. They would have to just deal with the D!

Suddenly there was a knock at the classroom door, Sr. Sheila opened it and in walked my mother.
As I stood to greet Mama and see just what I'd forgotten- my lunch, the rain coat again, I was told to take a seat. My mother stood before all 24 of my classmates, peers, and partners in class crimes - (namely Trina) and announced that the boys would be banned from calling my house. She went on to share that I was too young to be accepting calls from the boys and that I should be concentrating on my studies. I was then asked to relocate to the front of the classroom right under Sr. Sheila's nostrils. I learned my lesson that day, and yes, my D went to a B+! My lesson, Puberty never trumps Menopause!

That's me as a menopausbarbeebaby top row in pink

Proverbs

Menopausebarbies Germany — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 12:18:30 GMT

Irony...

The self proclaimed 'King of Kings' pulled from a sewage pipe just months after calling the Libyan people 'rats' when they rose up against him.

Hmm...

Maltese Proverb: Better one word less than one too many.

Latin Proverb: An unlettered king is a crowned ass.

Trick or Treat... Halloween celebrates the Alter Ego!

menopausebarbies — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 15:31:02 GMT

Yesterday, I found my Halloween costume. I love this holiday! It's the one day a year when adults can dress up and be their alter ego or just act a plain fool. As I walked through the large warehouse at Seattle's Costume and Display, I found that as in all previous years, I am drawn to the scanty, sexy numbers. I'm not one for the bloody gore, spiked wig, or hideous witch with warts and rotted teeth look. We menopausebarbees have enough work to do to keep it together already- right? So over the years, I have been- Lucky Lady- a card dealer, a French Maid, and Flapper Girl, even a trauma nurse, but I had to add fish nets and heels of course! Sounds like my alter ego was who Donna Summer was singing about when she wrote, She works hard for the money!

Some of the costumes I saw this year were out there... Way out there! I wonder who sits in the design planning committee to come up with these ideas. There was a "couples" costume with an electric cord and the mate was an electric plug. A whoopee cushion that a little tyke of about 5 was screaming because his mother didn't think he should get it as it wasn't appropriate. I saw a woman trying on a foam Beer can costume telling her husband if she wore it, maybe he'd pay attention to her.

My take is to put on whatever makes you happy and whatever strikes you. Go out and have some fun- be a kid again. This year, I will be going as Twister- the game, just thought it was unique and of course cute! I will put it on, spinning hat and all and head up to Capital Hill where the houses will be mysterious, frightening, intriguing and thrilling. I will marvel at the lit pumpkins, and sip hot cider, and munch on the Baby Ruth's- my favorite candy bar! I will watch as my daughter and her friends run from house to house from the play graveyards, and Ghouls, Gremlins and other Twisters. Never too old to trick or treat- Never too old to be a kid!

Where the Hell Have all the Snacks Gone?

Menopausebarbies Germany — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 06:40:57 GMT

So. This is how far we’ve come.

Preschoolers have enjoyed a snack and a play date with Sesame Street characters Ernie, Elmo, the Cookie Monster, Big Bird and the gang and learned about hygiene, safety, daily routines, animals, musical instruments, the weather, family, eating together and everything in between since the Muppet television show’s 1969 inception.

There are wide eyed smiles, laughter, hand clapping and fun as the wheels of wonder are set in motion.

With the introduction of a new character named Lily, on October 9, 2011, the show went from being educationally playful to …poignant.

Lily, the new Muppet is hungry.

Her character reflected the all too real crisis that too many children have become familiar with. Meal insecurity. An insecurity resulting from an economic crisis that many children and their families have to deal with regularly.

Meal insecurity. Children.

Can you imagine your child or someone’s child you know being hungry? Suffering actual pain and not having the means to make that pain subside? Stop for a moment and think about it. A hungry child. In your city.

It is as equally horrifying as it is unacceptable. These are our babies and this is Sesame Street for Christ’s sake! What has happened to safety and innocence and H is for happy? And just where the hell have all the snacks gone?

We all know that this time of year is associated with giving thanks and sharing. Well, I’ll ring the alarm over the news alert: the reality of our present circumstance is making it clear that we are going to have to redefine, i.e. extend the time frame on drumming up and spreading the holiday spirit.

I don’t anticipate that any of you reading this blog has plans to bring a stranger home for Thanksgiving dinner this year as our dad did. (But if you do, please share your story). He’s been gone fifteen years now. Writing this post, the thought came across my mind that if I could have asked him one more thing before he left , it would be: “Daddy, what do you think would be more plausible in the year 2011- a hand held gadget that has near human functions or a hungry Muppet?” I know he would choose the gadget even though it would be totally outside the realm of anything he’d ever dreamed of.

A hungry Muppet. It almost defies the imagination. And breaks my heart.

Our situation is so dire that we can’t afford to wait for a particular date to celebrate the holidays. Our children certainly can’t. We must all do what we can today to help alleviate a child’s hunger pains. And we don’t have to make it complicated or reach into our pockets and worry that the financial donation is not getting into the right hands or that somebody else will do it for us or it won’t make a difference if we don’t do anything. We can not excuse ourselves with excuses.

When emergencies arise, people often turn to the church for help. There’s at least one in all of our neighborhoods. Grab something off your kitchen shelf and on your way to work or tennis lessons or wherever, drop it off at the church pantry. You don’t need to be a member of the church and donations are non-denominational. You can be as discreet or as blatant about your generosity as you’d like to be. And the wonderful thing about it is that it won’t cost you a thing except a moment to think about doing something for someone else. What’s in it for you is knowing that you helped to alleviate someone’s pain. A win-win situation indeed.

Let's all challenge ourselves to stop a child’s hunger pains before dusk today. We really can’t afford to let an apathetic stance towards our obligation to social consciousness/selflessness/concern dim our vision and delay/prohibit/restrain us from doing the right thing. The children are waiting.

We’ve already lost the snacks.

Pain into Purpose...

menopausebarbies — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 15:49:01 GMT

Last night, I watched Fran Drescher on OWN network and as Oprah interviewed her, I was mesmerized by her statement of the importance of turning Pain into Purpose. I grew up watching Fran as the funny voiced Nanny with the annoying laugh on her hit tv show, but didn't realize the depth of her struggles until I saw the interview. Her lifelong lover, husband and business partner told her he was gay. She had been the victim of a violent crime being robbed and raped at gunpoint in her own home. Her show, the Nanny ended and she discovered she had ovarian cancer. To witness Fran's transformation and how she healed and used these painful tragedies for the purpose of helping others is beyond commendable. She is now cancer free and back in partnership with her ex and they are the best of friends. Her charity and celebrity is helping save lives with early detection of cancer- Catch it on arrival, a 95 % survival is her slogan.

As I reflected on the work Fran has done, I think there is a lesson for us all. Pain is inevitable. We will all succumb to loss over the years. The loss may be a family member, friend, job, divorce, pet or financial. It's what you do with that loss that can make a difference for the betterment of yourself and others that will define your future. Personally, I have found writing to be cathartic. When my Dad died and I started sharing stories about him, so many reached out and told me the impact he had on their lives. My daddy was a network marketer, even before this term was popular. He never met a stranger and like him, I enjoy bringing people together. I have been able to make introductions and lend practical advice that my father taught me about the housing industry and surviving during these challenging economic times. This has been my father's legacy and has kept his presence alive for 15 years and gives me a sense of peace.

To honor a loved ones memory, it's a simple task to pay it forward and do something for someone else. Maybe it's baking, or sharing a good book, or just letting someone know that you too have been there. Think about something meaningful that the painful circumstance meant to you. What lesson was learned that someone else might benefit from. When you do so, your gift will be that you turn your Pain into Purpose and Heal yourself and others.

This one's for you, Daddy!

Are you a Cougar or a T-Rex ?

menopausebarbies — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 18:10:32 GMT

This post, Are you a Cougar or T-Rex got deleted in error. With all the news lately about May December Romances - Demi and Ashton in particular, I thought I should re-post!

Last summer, I held a party in honor of my son's early commencement from high school. We put up a tent outside as it was the first blazing hot day of the year. OK in Seattle that meant the temp was barely hovering around 70 degrees. Dear friends and family came together, and we danced as DJ Hitman played old school jam after old school jam. Finally after several group dances of The Electric Slide, and The Cupid Shuffle, breathless and sweaty, several of us menopausebarbees congregated to the kitchen to refresh with a cool glass of water. We were shortly followed by a newcomer to Seattle who came at the invitation of a respected long-term Seattle attorney friend. The newcomer, Mr. hot, young, fabulous, early 30 -something, SINGLE attorney steps in the kitchen and asks if he can have a cool beverage as well. My girls, 3 divorced, 1 a lifelong single and 1 pending divorce all attacked this poor young man with the Who, What, Where, When and Why's? Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from? When did you get here? Why Seattle? They were all sizing up Mr. Young Fabulous Hot Attorney when my Uncle, (the funny one) walked in and joined us. I said, "Hey Unc, you better save this nice young man from all these Cougars!"
Without missing a beat, My Uncle looked around at all my girls and said,
"I don't see any Cougars, I see a bunch of T-Rex's!"
Now I am officially refusing designation into the Brontosaurus Club, even though my uncle has named me T-Rex president!
But I just wanna know why an old guy with a hot young girl isn't a Neanderthal?

Menopausebarbee Monday Spotlight on Amy Antin

Menopausebarbies Germany — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 01:36:23 GMT

This Menopausebarbee Monday, I'd like to introduce you all to Amy Antin.

As you will read here, Amy, a former teacher is an accomplished author, writer, singer, painter and musician. Originally from New York, she has resided here in Cologne for nearly two decades and has successfully put her mark on the city. She is at once a gracious and humble woman. When she says, "How ya' doin' Trae?" I know she means it. I am proud to call her my friend.

Amy Antin was born in New York City, grew up on Long Island, and having completed a Ph.D. in literature (her dissertation was on the French critic, Roland Barthes) and taught literature for two years at New York University, she then took off to Cologne, Germany, to finally do what she always wanted to do, --live for and from her music, and write songs and sing them. Parallel, she painted, and today she is not only the author and lyricist of over 600 songs, but is a highly prolific and successful painter. Recording artist with Herzog Records, Hamburg (her album “Heart of Clay” is available through Amazon.de), she performs her music either solo with guitar (three concerts with literary expert Elke Heidenreich), or with her “trio”, bassist Bernd Keul and drummer Philipp Imdahl. The trio features two distinct programs, one of songs based on visual art and artists (her Rothko Cycle is the most known of these)and the other on themes such as life, love and the pursuit of an apartment in Cologne (Küche, Diele, Bad”), where she has hung her hat now for almost 20 years.

A Cologne institution in the singer/songwriter scene, her work is most known in the prominent Cologne venue, 'Stadtgarten', where she has both performed in countless concerts and hosted a concert series called 'Amy Antin’s Room' which then evolved into 'Amy Antin’s Room for Peace', now going into its 10^th year.

A mini-festival of sorts, 'Room for Peace' concerts feature fifteen to twenty other performers and musicians who generously perform for free. All proceeds of this yearly event are donated to various charitable organizations. ;Room for Peace' has supported Aladdin’s Children, an organization responsible for building and maintaining a children’s hospital in Afghanistan, Alzheimer-Selbsthilfe Köln, e.V., as well as medica mondiale, e.V., Cologne, to support a program to aid women and children in Ruanda who, due to the violent civil war of 1994, were victims of rape and abuse.

I asked ‘Ames’ how she felt at this stage of her life being in the menopausebearbees club and what lessons she’s learned along the way that she would like to share. I also asked her to offer up her feelings on her ‘baby’ ‘Room for Peace’. Here’s what she said:

“What I've learned over the years is gratitude. I'm grateful to still be here. What I've also learned is that it helps to hook up my expectations with my reality, not expect more than I can accomplish, and try to feel satisfied with what I have and what's been given. Oh, and breathe. Breathing is very, very important. Balance, too. And tenderness. Tenderness is the part that makes it beautiful.

‘Room for Peace’ grew out of ‘Amy Antin’s Room’, a monthly concert series in the Stadtgarten, here in Cologne. I've always thought the world needed more peace. Singer-songwriters like my colleagues and I need to feel our songs are heard, it provides us with a sense of fulfillment and joy. So this yearly benefit concert provides a ‘room’ for all that. A sort of contemporary mini-Woodstock. For me, the work I do, whether it’s directing and performing in 'Room for Peace', my own concerts, or painting or writing-- these are all forms of that gratitude I was talking about. And the music itself-- that's the tenderness. This amazes me every time, how songs can give so much to others.

And last but not least, let's not forget love and friendship. These are what you remember always. Even more than music and all the arts, it's the love you take with you.

Love you, Trae, Ames”

For those of us here in Cologne, Amy and her trio will be performing at Theater der Keller am 31 October 2011 um 20:00 Uhr. You won’t want to miss this.

Visit Amy’s website at www.amyantin.de

The 8 Dwarfs of Menopause

menopausebarbies — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 19:08:10 GMT

I awoke in a funk yesterday. Just like these 7 Dwarfs of Menopause, I had it all, Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful and Psycho. You know one of those days that makes you just wanna crawl under the covers and take a Fukitol? Now I know the definition of Stupidity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome. So yesterday, I decided to heed my own advice. Instead of giving in to the misery and the gloomy day of rain falling which will persist in some form of liquid dropping from the sky for the next 9 months, I decided to take action. I intended to dodge the F's - fixing, feeding, fledging and fleeing any obstacles coming at me.

I drew a hot bath and lit a new Radelu candle- why save it? I turned up my I Pad and savored in my bubbles listening to my favorite old school tunes. I then hopped back in my unmade bed and finished a book I had been nursing. The book made me sleepy, so I gave into my fatigue and without guilt took a nap. I awoke refreshed, went for a walk- even though it rained, picked up some take out and rented a DVD. As the day ended, I smiled and added one more Dwarf to my list... Grateful.

Now take a moment and think of all the people and the To Do's on your list today.Write them down. Really, write them down and continue reading.

Where do you fall on the list?
Remember to take time out for Number 1 and put yourself on the list. Everything else can and will wait.

Mourning your own life...Should've, Could've, Would've

menopausebarbies — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 15:25:05 GMT

I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Saturday, October 14, 2000, I was in Sunny Arizona excited for the Husky vs ASU Football game. I would attend with a host of Seattle friends later that night, so I awoke with thoughts of what to make for our tailgate. Just before 6 am, the phone rang. That eerie early morning ring that immediately alerts you that something bad has happened. My suspicions were immediately confirmed when my mother told me her brother, my closest uncle who had been a second father to me had suddenly passed away. It couldn't be. Uncle Boo as we affectionately called him for many reasons, but mostly because as children he kept us all in line, was gone. Uncle Boo was a daily presence in our lives. As far back as I can remember and every morning thereafter into my adulthood, he came to our house and would say, "Baby, fix me a half a cup." That was the signal for my sisters or I to get him a coffee. This was his time to check on us and make certain we were a- ok. He was a "can do" person and never one to sit on his laurels. If we weren't home, he would busy himself finding something that needed repair until we returned. His energy bordered on the super human. At 70, he was the most fit in the family. On a daily basis, before most of us had arisen, he had already jogged to Seward Park 5-7 miles or went on lengthy bike rides. We jokingly called him our own, Black Jack LaLane. He was never a drinker and truly had no vices. Complications from a cancer surgery robbed us and we didn't see it coming.

We were lost. Tracie flew home from Germany and we made it through the service. Still stunned and in shock, we tried to pick up the pieces of our lives. Mom flew back to Germany with Tracie to heal, but upon her return home, we were still inconsolable with grief. Uncle Boo's absence in our lives was akin to our worst nightmare..

I found a Grief Counseling Group at our church and enrolled my mother and I. On the first night as the group assembled, we went around the room and shared our losses. The first woman had lost her mother, a man's lover, gone from AIDS, a young women was mourning the loss of her marriage. As we rounded out the circle, an elderly man said he was mourning the loss of his wife of 60 years. There was a community sigh of heartfelt compassion, until he said "And I'm so glad the G---damn bitch is gone!" My mother and I looked at each other and ceremoniously fell out laughing. We were the only ones in the group who seemed to find this statement hysterical. Embarrassed, we tried to compose ourselves. "Why are you here if you are glad she's gone?" I asked.
I studied his white bearded chin, and deeply crevice lined face while I awaited his answer.
"I'm mourning the loss of my own life," he said. "All the years that evil woman took from me."

That day was a life's lesson. They say some people die at 40, but aren't buried til 85. I say to you all today Carpe Diem, and enjoy! Don't look back on your life with the should've, could've, would've. I've never heard an old person say 'Remember the time I didn't?' Live, Laugh and Love Everyday!
This one's for Uncle Boo!

Take the Ouch Out of It!

Menopausebarbies Germany — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 04:20:10 GMT

Christmas is right around the corner (!!!)

For weeks now, I've seen Christmas calendars with chocolate treats packaged behind little perfortated doors numbered 1 to 24 that are to be opened and eaten beginning on the first day of December (and one each day thereafter until Christmas Eve), as well as Christmas cookies, Stollen (the traditional German Christmas sweet yeast bread), as well as various other edibles indicating that sleigh bells will soon be ringing.

Hmm....

Far be it from me to say "Oh humbug!" I really love the Christmas season, but before I get ready to enjoy her wonderful sights and smells, I wanted to give a shout out to a particular fruit that is as festive as it is good for us.

Pumpkin!

Not only is pumpkin associated with the American Thanksgiving meal, it has adorned and decorated homes and communities in honor of this event for hundreds of years.

This month many of us may be drumming up new ideas of how to decorate the perfect pumpkin. How about trying some no carve decorations? To that end, I'd like to share this post with you.

Have fun!

http://www.stylelist.com/brie-dyas/halloween-crafts-pumpkin-ideas_b_1002392.html#s398276&title=Studded_Pumpkins