My new annual tradition: the irrational female hissy fit

I like to think of myself as easy going. I try to go with the flow and, for the most part, I do. Last year (summer 2011) I threw an unexpected and (I now acknowledge) unwarranted hissy fit on the man I’m involved with. He did not see it coming. It was a one-sided “fight” that escalated in my mind over the course of a couple of weeks.

He should have read my mind….or at least clued in to the subtle hints I’d been dropping.

When I finally launched the bomb on him, to say his confusion was extreme would be an understatement. Post-detonation, I vented at him for a few hours via telephone, text AND email. No method of communication went unused. I’m not a screamer, but I certainly beat the horse dead. In the end, I apologized but he told me not to worry. He was never engaged in the argument to begin with.

Although I’ve known this man for nearly 25 years, we’ve only been involved for the last two years. The relationship is a bit unconventional, but it works for both of us. I need space. Lots of it. I’m an only child and I’ve lived by myself for almost 30 years. The thought of being around another person full time makes my throat constrict. This matches perfectly with his needs. I know what you’re thinking, but I assure you he’s not married – remember, I’ve known him for decades.

I should also explain that I’m relationship impaired. I did my share of dating during my 20s, but the longest relationship I’d ever had during that time was only a year and a half. Then, when I turned 29, I met the man of my dreams. The only problem was, I wasn’t the woman of his dreams. He broke my heart and left me with an acute fear of commitment. All this means that I don’t know a whole lot about the male brain. I just don’t have a lot of experience with it.

While 2011 was pretty spectacular for me, 2012…not so much. You see, in addition to becoming involved with my long time friend in 2011, I also had a bit of a long distance involvement going on (don’t judge me, I was making up for a long time drought.) I wasn’t cheating on anyone though because my local guy knew about the long distance guy before we even got involved. But here’s where 2012 started to suck: in April, the long distance guy informed me that he was no longer interested in me. It wasn’t a shock. I’d seen the writing on the wall. And the year continued to go downhill after that.

I will be forever grateful to the long distance guy for finally bringing me out of my shell after so long. If it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to begin this local relationship. I really liked having the local/long distance guy thing going. The balance it provided was incredible. It kept me from getting too emotionally invested in either of them. While getting dumped by long distance guy didn’t turn me into a cling-on with local guy, it did give me more time to fret about certain aspects of the local guy relationship. But I managed to stay balanced and appreciate the relationship at face value. Until December.

It’s not an annual event until it happens a second time.

I’ve been pretty impressed by the fact that we’ve had only one disagreement in nearly two years of involvement. So of course I had to go and ruin it. I lobbed my first shot about two weeks ago. It didn’t even register with him. Which started my stew. Between the holidays and other personal matters, we just haven’t seen each other in person, but we’ve traded texts on a semi-regular basis.

Then, something happened in his life that I felt he should have told me about. Instead, I heard it from someone else. He didn’t feel it was a big deal. My fuse was lit and continued to burn through last night. He had no idea about the one-sided war waging in my head. I held my iPhone for a half hour, finger poised over his number. But I didn’t call. I composed a text…rewriting it several times and staring at it for ten minutes. Finally, I hit send. It was not brief. And it wasn’t even relevant to the issue that set me off. Apparently, he was bewildered because this is the reply I received:

And I was off and running.

With just over 24 hours left in 2012, I’d turned the psycho female hissy fit into an annual event.

Confusion here?!?! Of course I didn’t let it go at that. I continued to vent text and his responses refused to engage my ire. An hour later he arrived at my place to pick me up for a party. During the hour between our last text and his arrival, I realized how unreasonable I’d been. When he came in, I immediately apologized for my snap-out. He waved it off because he still wasn’t aware we were having a disagreement. We drove to the party and separated the minute we walked in the door. Over the next two-plus hours, I don’t think we were ever in the same room. At the designated time we had agreed to depart, I sought him out and simply said, “okay, ready to go?”

This kind and patient man smiled and proceeded to drive me home. There was no anger from him. In fact, he went above and beyond the call of duty because while at the party, I allowed a few people to force tequila shots down my throat. He insisted on walking me inside and when he got home shortly after that, he sent me a funny text typical to the usual evening texts we often exchange.

All was forgotten. Based on the way I acted, I certainly don’t deserve to have this wonderful man in my life. He had a significant family matter going on over the last week and certainly did not deserve my bad attitude. I’m still having flashes of fury over his lack of perception and reluctance to communicate, but a friend assures me that it’s just how the male brain works.

I wish you a very Happy New Year and all the best for 2013. I plan on spending tomorrow on the sofa watching the Snapped marathon on television. I’m not very regular about posting but if I happen to drop out for an extended period of time, look for the next Snapped marathon. You just might see me there next year!

Fighting Fire With Fire

<Alert to male readers: although the first paragraph may make you squirm, I promise, it doesn’t get more cloyingly female.  Stick with me and you may learn something to help your currently-afflicted or later to be affected female partner.>

Almost four years ago, I had a hysterectomy (aka The Happiest Day of My Life).  My ovaries were left behind.  No big deal because it DID instantly cure a lifetime of monthly misery.  I was told that the dreaded beast called menopause would still pay me a visit because my ovaries were still there.  At that point, what did I care? It simply brought an end to six-to-eight ghastly days each month.

During this past month of July after turning in for the night, there were several occasions where I awoke with my torso drenched with sweat glistening with moisture. It began right around the time that the Connecticut summer finally kicked in with typical 90+ degree temperatures and 85+% humidity.  Even my keratin-treated hair began to frizz.

I simply attributed the multiple occurring moments of nightly discomfort to be a result of the weather.  But then I stopped and thought, “Well, Betty, your central air is set at 70˚ at night.  It canNOT be the weather.”

True That.

At my annual doctor visit last week, I told him of my night sweats (ugh, I’m sure you can tell I was trying everything possible to avoid owning that phrase.) He said, “On average, women begin menopause at age 51.4.”  I had just turned 51 three weeks prior.  There you go.  Average Betty.

At the same time, my first attempt at growing habanero peppers on a suburban deck began to pay off.  It started slowly.  A single habanero finely diced into chili.  Excellent heat and flavor.  A few days later, an attempt at jerk marinated chicken containing the four peppers that had ripened.  Even better.

hot hot hot

As the crop continues to ripen, I’m struggling to keep up with recipes utilizing these fierce chiles. Tonight I made a Thai Red Curry Chicken Pasta dish.  I have a high tolerance for culinary heat. Any time I go to a restaurant where the menu offers diners the opportunity to request a specific level of hotness, I always specify the maximum.  And I’m never fully satisfied. When home cooking, I ALWAYS go overboard on the quantity of chiles called for in a recipe.

But satisfaction has been realized in an entirely different way.  I’ve experienced a decrease in the occurrence of night sweats that has been in direct proportion to my increased habanero consumption.  The more heat I pump into my body via jerk marinade or pineapple habanero salsa, the less my internal middle-aged furnace tries to force heat to escape.

So, my advice to anyone dealing with the dreadful side effects of menopause: consume habanero chiles in any way, shape or form you can. Spread the word.  It works for me.

Growing Your Own is the Way to Go.

I’m now at the point where at least 5-7 habanero chiles fully ripen on my deck plants each day.  Please forward me any recipes you may have to make use of the bumper crop.  Or, if you live in CT, let me know and I’ll personally deliver a freshly-picked batch.

I plan to test every recipe for the preservation of habanero peppers that I can find. Tomorrow I will be threading a string through about 16 of them and hanging above an air vent in my office in attempt to dry/preserve these wonderful gems of my menopause relief. If you have any recipes to recommend, please share.

Special note to contact lens wearers: most recipes using habanero peppers recommend the use of rubber gloves while chopping and handling.  Feeling quite confident about my ability to handle the intensity of the habanero on my taste buds, I didn’t completely discount the handling cautions, but nor did I take it seriously.  Please be advised that up to six separate hand washings are insufficient to cleanse the fire from your fingers.  I could wash my hands over the course of six or seven hours and I still singe my eyeballs when trying to remove my contact lenses.  It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t done it three times now.

The eyeball burn is still better than night sweats.

Friends I’ve Never Met

Most bloggers will understand that statement. The few friends who read my blog and know me in real life may not understand.

There are a few of you out there I’ve made connections with that make me feel as if we know each other personally, despite the fact we’ve never met in person.  I know if we lived nearby, we’d regularly get together and share a couple of drinks, some good food and good times. A couple of you make me feel as if we indeed did hang out together in the 70s or 80s.

Three years ago this month I entered the world of blogging. I don’t know what I expected from the experience…never really had a clear direction (and still don’t), and as I’ve collected readers – and yes, friends – along the way, I’ve struggled to fit in.

Struggling to fit in.

That’s the story of my life.  As a child, I was perpetually awkward.  In high school,  I was never one of the popular kids, but always wished I could fit in.  Out of control in my 20s, finding more comfort in my 30s, finally feeling like an adult in my 40s, and now entering my early 50s realizing that, to a certain extent, I need to live for myself and not worry about what other people think.

I’ve said before, I feel like a fraud playing in the blog pool with such talented writers. I often feel as if I’m back in high school.  I worry about what to write and what other people will think. I’m not a good writer – rarely grammatically correct. When I read blog posts that criticize bloggers who write about personal matters, I take it personally. When I try to write cleverly humorous posts, I feel like Andrew Dice Clay competing in a stand-up comedy venue with Jerry Seinfeld.

Because I’m a socially awkward person, I guess I use this forum to ponder and say things that I really don’t have anyone to discuss with in my day-to-day life. You all know me for what I have to say and won’t judge me by what I look like or wear or am not able to cleverly verbalize at the spur of the moment.  I can write and rewrite to fine-tune the delivery before you read it.

Last month I celebrated my 51^stbirthday. And one of my friends I’ve never met sent me a birthday gift I never thought I needed, but now find I can’t live without – a journal.

My therapist. And yes, that’s the wiener dog in the background wishing that I’d toss that stuffed toy around instead of write.

Coincidentally, on the day my package arrived, although I’m not a regular horoscope reader, I cruised by a horoscope website that said the following for my sign:

“When was the last time you used a pen and paper, Leo? The keyboard has all but replaced these wonderful tools. In the same way that walking provides more than fresh air, the kinesthetic value of writing’s rhythmic motion is far more soothing and healing than people realize. Moving your hand across the page can feel good. It unlocks places within that typing can’t access. Try it.”

 If that wasn’t cosmic direction, I don’t know what is.

I’ve been using the journal as a kind of therapy.  For the last 20 months, I’ve been in a somewhat unconventional relationship with a wonderful man, but it’s been a secret to most who know us mutually (for a variety of reasons.)  This means I can’t talk things out with those closest to me. So I tell my journal and it is truly therapeutic.  For the last 12 of the 20 months we’ve been involved, on a weekly basis I’ve conducted internal arguments with myself that it’s not a healthy relationship and I should end it.  The other side of myself says, what’s the harm?

Before I began journaling, the voices inside my head would prevent me from getting a good night’s sleep.  Now, at least a few times each week, I’ve been writing my thoughts in the journal and I find that it does, indeed, facilitate release.  Not completely….I do have the occasional sleepless night….but there is truly something to the theory of writing things down to get them off your mind.  Oddly, I don’t look back at what I’ve written – I simply let it go.

Thank you, dear friend I’ve never met, for giving me a gift that none of my friends who know me in real life would have thought to give.

Elder Betty – The Official Beer of The Bubble

I’m not much of a beer drinker.  A couple of times in the summer, then around Thanksgiving a decade-plus-long Johnsondorf family tradition of Harpoon’s Winter Warmer.  Since I’m having a few people over for a 4^th of July celebration, I decided to stock a six-pack or two of something new and different.

A few weeks ago I was shopping for a beer to use in bread baking (that’s mostly what I buy beer for…as well as a couple of slow cooker stew-type recipes).  At that time, I noticed a blueberry flavored beer.  Because I’ve been on a fruit kick lately, that was the beer I intended to purchase.

But when I started gazing at the selection, a watermelon ale caught my eye.  As I opened the cooler to reach for the six-pack, I saw an adjacent label that seemed to say Elder Betty.  I assumed my middle-aged eyes were deceiving me (I didn’t have my reader glasses handy) and I saw that the beer was flavored with elderberry.  It still looked like Betty to me so I bought it.

I googled around and it turns out, the beer actually IS called Elder Betty.  How perfect is that?  I hereby proclaim Magic Hat’s Elder Betty 

the official beer of the Bubble.  Makes me recall Patty Punker’s 

 plea to Franzia to sponsor her blog….

Turning 50: No Expectations

As I find myself approaching the big 40-10 (which sounds much more agreeable than 50), I’m filled with deeply conflicted feelings about certain things in my life, but I’ve also just enjoyed the best year of my entire life. Ever. Seriously.

I’ve always felt that the older I get, the more I enjoy life. Never has that been more true than the last year. At the over-the-hill age of 49, I finally started living for myself, not others’ expectations. And that’s the philosophy that’s made my life so wonderful in this last year: no expectations. I’m finally comfortable in my own skin and I’ve developed relationships in my life that fulfill me beyond any expectations.

That’s why it’s so puzzling that the number 50 is freaking me out so badly. I’ve never hit a milestone birthday in my life that’s troubled me. Not 30, not 40, nothing. In fact, over the last several years if you asked me my age, I’d have to stop and think about it. Age was never something that impacted my life.

So why does the number 50 bother me?

Image via stoners.com

Damned if I know. All I do know is that I don’t want to acknowledge this birthday in any way, shape or form. Therefore, I have decided to leave the country to decrease the instances of having to gracefully accept birthday wishes from well-intentioned friends. Grace is not one of my strongest suits and I don’t want to sound like a nasty bitch.  While great, the last 12 months haven’t been completely annoyance-free. I’ve had some practice whipping out my nasty bitch self.  And I often feel as if I’m 49-going-on-15 as I frequently spout the immature, “DUH” (mostly when interacting with certain men, but not to their faces.)

My destination of denial is an island in the Caribbean. Yeah, I know it’s not the ideal season for the destination (hurricanes) – but you wouldn’t believe the great prices!

I plan to enjoy a beautiful beach, ponder life, read several novels, listen to music, enjoy spa treatments and consume rum beverages (not necessarily in that order) over the span of several days on either side of the actual date of the dreaded milestone.

I hope to gain some clarity on certain aspects of my life and, most of all, to disconnect. I haven’t done something like this in…well…ever. But one philosophy I won’t rethink is “No Expectations.” I strongly encourage this for everyone.  Live for yourself, make yourself happy, and I believe it helps everything else fall into place.

Wax Museums – I just don’t get it

While perusing some “news” websites today (okay, I was trolling for more gems from Sheen, pun intended), I came across a story about Justin Bieber and his excitement over the unveiling of his wax image at Madame Tussauds in New York and London.

The story made me recall my first awareness of the existence of wax museums. This occurred in the mid-90s during several months of European travel. First I came across Madame Tussauds in London. Although the line to enter was impressive, it did nothing to pique my interest.

This is a wax image of Princess Di, but she was still alive when I visited London. Image via Wikipedia.

Several weeks later while visiting Monaco, I came across a modest wax museum featuring the Royal Family of Monaco – the Wax Museum of the Princes of Monaco. There was no line. Curious to investigate the fascination, I went in. The museum featured life size models of members of the Grimaldi Dynasty dressed in costumes from the time they lived and ruled.  Good times.

During a recent stay in New York involving a few cab rides that crawled through Times Square, no matter the day, no matter the time, the line for Madame Tussauds snaked down the sidewalk.

Will someone please tell me why these places exist? What on earth is the big deal about staring at a wax figurine, even if it is someone “famous?” I understand that some folks enjoy having their photo taken standing next to their favorite celebrities. BUT THEY’RE NOT REAL!  Come on now, what’s the point?  “Hey look, sis – when I was in New York, I ran into Beyonce and had my photo taken with her!”

"I love SVU," slurred Betty

I’m not above stalking down a real live celebrity for a photo opportunity.

Just last year, my friend and I chased down Ice-T and his wife, Coco, in Las Vegas for a photo opportunity. But we talked with both of them and came away with a lot more from the experience than a slippery hand.  That experience cost us nothing.  To visit a wax museum, you’ll pay any where from $10 to even $30.

I did hear that there is a wax image of Robert Pattinson.  Hmmm….if it’s anatomically correct, $30 might be quite reasonable.

Gratuitous photo placement of a man young enough to be my son. Image via Wikipedia.

The official appetite killer of Lithuania

I come from a fractured family, so holidays are often just my parents and myself as well as any friends or neighbors (theirs or mine) we’d like to spend time with. Some remain on the scene through multiple holidays (like June B. Stewart), while others (like Thursday’s guest) will hopefully quickly rotate out.

Thanksgiving.  The best food holiday of the year, yes? Due to the “national dish of Lithuania“, here’s what I was able to eat: two bites of turkey and one forkful of mashed potatoes. Then it all went horribly wrong.

I wanted to hurl

A first time guest to my parents’ holiday table was a neighbor of theirs who is very proud of her European roots – mainly Lithuania, secondly Germany. Let’s call her Babs. To demonstrate her appreciation for the Thanksgiving dinner invitation, she proudly contributed the pride of her heritage: Kugela, known as the “national dish of Lithuania.” The ingredient list reads potatoes, onion, and bacon.  I know what you’re thinking: how could this go wrong?  That’s exactly what I’d like to know.

Even though it was somewhat redundant to bring a big ass potato pancake to a Thanksgiving feast (hello? mashed potatoes? stuffing?) having the ancestral blood from Poland and Germany running through my veins, I looked forward to trying it. Thursday’s lesson? Don’t mess with tradition.

I don’t know what on earth Babs did to potatoes, onion and bacon to make it smell the way it did, but the aroma just made my stomach seize. Not only did I have a generous serving of kugela on my plate, but the overflowing serving dish was situated about 14 inches from my nose.

It was so nauseating, I couldn’t even stomach a slice of pie for dessert. Another glass of cab, please!?

I’ve never had a Thanksgiving buzz kill like that. The fact that I couldn’t control the menu myself from the beginning (my mother’s a little sensitive to my ‘control issues’ that she can’t imagine where I get them), as well as being on the verge of hurl-dom from Thursday through yesterday, led me to buy and cook a turkey breast all for myself today. It’ll feed me and the wiener dog for several days but it doesn’t replace that ‘open the jeans zipper’ feeling that is a Thanksgiving requirement.

As an American national holiday, I propose that all foreign-food contributions be banned in perpetuity from Thanksgiving dinners. All in favor?

A Perfect Example of When Facebook is a Good Thing

Let’s face it. Everyone’s got their own idea of Facebook’s place in the world. There are those who sign on minimally – the anonymous avatar,  birth date and year just slightly off , only a list of  the last few “Betty is now friends with Hippie Cahier,” type posts. Others jump in a little bit deeper, adding a photo, venturing back a few decades to high school and remaining current with some friends made along the professional way. Some of these folks simply lurk, others dabble with comments across a wide range of friends.

Then there’s the set of Facebook friends we all dread: the all-out friend whore multi-level assault.

Of course, there are different levels of assault. Most annoying is the “friend” who reaches out to every person they can call to memory (and often some they can’t), then communicate as if they were best friends back in the 70s or 80s (even if they rolled in different circles), and post TMI status updates.

Today, however, I’m writing about the joy that diverse friend bases can bring.  Unlike many who enjoy the quantity friendship Facebook can provide, my “friend” list is fluid. I would say I’m active on the site at least once a week and take a few moments every Friday to “thin the herd. “

Those who remain are a group appreciated for the variety of things they add to my life. Just a few minutes ago, I signed onto Facebook and viewed the home page listing the most recent news from my friends. It warmed my heart to see the following two updates side-by-side (one is an “actual” friend, the other is a “fan friend” for a driver in the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series):

<name deleted to protect the innocent> werd up these new babymomma stollers look like escalades…me and my brother were zip tied and ducked taped to my uncles old unicycle with a leash…. · Comment · Like

XXXX driver Just got home from qualifying to a house full of Krissie’s family for another baby shower. It’s amazing how someone so small will require so much stuff! · Comment · Like

How beautiful is that?

I’ve been “tagged”

photo via cheezburger.com

Fellow blogger, Hippie Cahier, has been kind enough to tag me in one of those “interview”-type chains and I’m happy to oblige. I’ve been in a bit of a writing drought and welcome the motivation to get back to it.  Please be sure to check out Hippie’s blog, too –  I know you’ll enjoy it as much as I do!

1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?

My preferred mode of travel

I would like to have the superpower held by Jeannie (from the 60s sitcom, I Dream of Jeannie) that enables her to instantly travel anywhere by simply folding her arms and blinking. I’d travel a lot more (and a lot more stress-free) if I didn’t have to get on a plane.

2. Who is your style icon?

Oooh, um, I have no style. Although I did once compare my dog walking attire to Carl Spackler in Caddyshack. I do know enough to clean up/dress up when necessary. In those cases, I try to follow the advice presented by Clinton Kelly and Stacy London on TLC’s What Not to Wear.  This doesn’t necessarily mean I can pull it off, but I try.

3. What is your favorite quote? That can change with the seasons. My current favorite is something I heard Tony Bourdain say on an episode of No Reservations, “There’s a party inside my skull.”  I feel that way a lot and for multiple reasons.

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

Okay, I’m sure this is going to sound corny but….last fall, at my 30 year high school reunion, the former head cheerleader came up to me and said that she always viewed me as her competition.  Say what? She was (and still is) prettier, thinner, and more personable than I am. The cheerleader keyword probably tipped you off. My crowd in high school was more like….let me put it this way: if I attended Ridgemont High, I would have been friends with Jeff Spicoli. Anyway, she went on to explain that she viewed me as competition because apparently I attended a high school dance with her soon-to-be high school sweetheart (and now husband). It was a one date deal that I barely remember but now will never forget because that compliment made my day (my decade.)

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

I’m listening to a playlist called “Cocktail Party.” The song currently playing is Girl (by Beck) and, to give you a bit of a feel for the playlist, the next five tunes are Bittersweet Symphony (The Verve), Psychic City (Yacht), Young Forever (Jay-Z feat. Mr. Hudson), Peaceful World (John Mellencamp), Champagne Supernova (Oasis).

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

Very much a morning person. Every morning, whether midweek or weekend, I awake unassisted anywhere between 5:30 and 6:15am.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

Without a doubt, dogs.  Cats are the devil’s spies.

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

When I moved into my current home, the previous occupant passed away a couple of weeks later and took possession of me. Her name was Betty (read About Betty for the rest of it, that says it all).

Metalpeckers

Do I have your attention now? I’ve lived in the same home for close to ten years. Several years ago, around dawn on a Saturday morning, I was awakened by a totally unfamiliar and bizarre sound. Like a snare drum, perhaps? But coming from the roof?  WTF?

A few days later while walking my dog around 6am, I heard the sound. Turned toward the side of my condo, at the roof line where the metal chimney emerged, A WOODPECKER.  Pecking the metal chimney. Oddly enough, this seemingly dumbass bird only pecks metal on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It lasts for several weeks in mid-Spring, then ends for another year.

Even though I’ve now lived through this for five or six years now, it’s always an alarming moment when hearing it for the first time each year. Are there crops of other confused wood/metalpeckers out there or do we just grow ‘em dumb ’round here? (And is it the same bird? That bird’s offspring? In the genes? Nature? Nurture? Discuss…)