50 Shades of Grey: "Nay" to the movie and bondage teddy bear

50 Shades of Grey that epic ode to bondage and something called the Red Room is all the rage. It's been dubbed "Mommy Porn" and  although plenty of suburban moms found it a page-turner statistics indicate that a lot of unmarried women in the 20s and 30s are reading it too. 

From the Today Show to the Interwebs it is being pitched as a naughty movie spectacular aimed squarely at Soccer Moms.

It is the only porn-lite creation that I can think of in recent memories that made it OK to talk about erotica at the neighborhood barbecue. (Unless you live in a significantly racier zip codes than I do where discussion of erotica is the norm.)

I just don't get 50 Shades of Grey. To be honest, I had no interest in reading it when it came out but, in the interest of elevating the discourse of Menopausal Moms I just read some excerpts. With language like "My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves” and "He hits me, hard" and perhaps my favorite, this ode to baby oil "from makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid.”

After reading the bits and pieces, I'm secure in the fact that I made the right choice for me. (For the record, this is Mary, if there is anyone wondering. Kim would not repeat such things.)

I will say this. I don't judge. If bondage porn gets your motor running and a consenting adult wants to get in that leather suit with you, well you guys probably make a lovely pair. If you enjoy it because it is a daring daydream, good on you.

And I suppose if you have to say "I am not a prude" you are pretty close to admitting that you are a prude.  But truth be told, I liked 9 1/2 Weeks and remember fondly Last Tango in Paris although parts of it just confused me.

I am all for a little dirty fun.

It's just I think the dynamics as I understand them between Christian and Anastasia is too skewed for comfort and a little cliche.  Plus, Dakota Johnson speaks like a little girl in interviews which I find off putting. In the trailers show her begging the much older man to love her and he resists. Yet, apparently, the more he hits and tortures her the more he is willing to be her real boyfriend.

Yes, that's a message I can't get behind, to love me is to beat me.

I won't get into why sexual violence in a shouldn't be celebrated.

And, beyond that, I just don't like the author. I suppose I should. A middle aged writer turned international success. But she just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I would like to be a middle aged writer with international success.

Here is the final thing. 50 Shades is celebrated for appealing to woman, suburban woman in
particular, slightly older woman at that. But last week the Today show had a special showing of the film for 1,000 mostly middle aged women. There was something about the running joke that --ohhhh, ladies of a certain age like S-E-X.

And, truthfully, isn't one of the only bonus things about menopause is that you can have sex and not worry about an unintended pregnancy. So, if for no other reason than that, shouldn't we all like sex a little more.
Are you Yay or Nay for 50 Shades. Tell me what you think.



Update: This is a for real thing from the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. It is 15 inches tall and costs $89.99. I wish I was making this up.


Shout out to our reader in India. Menopause and Moms are universal
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Confessions of a Menopausal Mom at the Gym

Since I have seven months experience, six if you count that I've only been to the gym four times since Thanksgiving, I wanted to share my vast, hard-earned experience with you my fellow Menopausal Moms.

I just started wotking out last year in May. It was  12-wweek  program for people over 50. I always was an overachiever so I started at 49.  For $100 you got two visits with a nutrtionist, a weekly visit with a trainer and access to the gym. (HealthWork Baptist Health in Lexington offers the program called Joints in Motion)

Best Money I Ever Spent.

It did not start out in a great way. During my first visit the trainer didn't know what to do with me I was so nervous and sweaty. Sweaty partly because of anxiety, partly because my air conditioning didn't work in my car and partly because of the occasional hot flash which a careful reader will know by now are apparently made worse in me by stress.

He, seriously, took me past a Zumba class with a woman dancing in it with a chair in front of her so she could sit down. She easily had 100 pounds on me. There, he said, if she can do it you can.

 Looking back I guess that isn't a terrible motivational tool but it didn't feel encouraging at the time. I just got sweatier and more hot flashy.

But I stuck with it. It wasn't pretty. It was plenty sweaty. But I did it and am going to go back at it again in the New Year.

Here are some randoms thoughts, some confessions, about the gym.

• My first time at the gym the trainer told me to walk for four minutes on treadmill then left, seeming confused that walking 30 seconds seemed a challenge. I thought those four minutes would never end. It was nearly all due to nerves. In no time I was doing 15 than 20 than 30. It gets better. 
• There are very few chubby white haired women at the gym. I don't know where they all are because trips to Wal-Mart show me there are plenty of us. Let's see what we can do to change that.
• If you haven't worked out in a long time or ever then getting ready to work out can be a work out. Those damn tennis shoes don't tie themselves and gym shoes don't slip on. I was stiff, stiff, stiff. My awesome second trainer would catch me as I emerge from the dressing room, sweating from shoe-putting-on and no-airconditioning in the car and say "oh good, you are warmed up." It gets better.
• Most people aren't paying any attention to you. If you think they are judging you in some way for being in a gym but not being in shape...you are in the wrong gym and you, like me, are probably too self-conscious. That gets better too.
• Yes, sometimes, there are grunty, sweaty men which can make you, if you are like me, uncomfortable. (Women, in my experience, are 90 percent less grunty.) If you put in your ear buds, say tuned into One Direction, you can't hear them. (Or, maybe, grunt back randomly. I haven't tried that yet but I might. It's something to aspire to in 2015.)
• After the treadmill, I really, really wanted to stick with something that looked like a recumbent bike and that was it. It was where the Super Seniors at my gym hung out. I wanted nothing to do with the elliptical, no free weights, no walking to the part of the gym where the muscle-lifting, super grunters roam. I was scared. But with some encouragement I tried new things. I liked them. So, push yourself and get support.
• Sometimes there are fit young men in the gym. I feel that it is appropriate to admire them in not a creepy grandma way but in a way that honors God's good work. When I see a fit young man I say to myself, sometimes out loud, "Good Job, God. Look what you did there? Nice work!" There are some perks at the gym you just can't find anywhere else.
• Today's shout out is to Ireland. Yes, someone in Ireland has read Menopausal Moms of Kentucky. Mary Charlotte Meehan is my name. If you say it with an Irish accent you can see where my roots are. Go Ireland. Menopause and Moms are Universal.

Elf on the Shelf Moms: You Win.

I hate Elf on the Shelf.

I know I am not alone.   

The Elf itself is kind of retro-50s era Connecticut-Christmas cute. I'm not mad about that. I'm not even opposed to hiding the Elf around the house. I do think it's adding a layer of work to a holiday already filled with work. 

But, if it makes a kiddo happy, well OK.

No, I hate it because this new "holiday tradition" has become a a blunt object used in the ongoing Mommy Wars by a certain segment of mothers, some Menopausal some not, who feel compelled to show the rest of us, the majority of us, how fabulous and thoughtful they are because THEY really, really love their children so no extra step is too extreme. 

Their zealous tending and sharing, and sharing and tending, make me feel like I am just not trying hard enough.

 Not trying enough because I have a demanding 40-hour a week plus full time job.

Not trying hard enough because I am trying to do somethings for myself after 16 very kid-focused years. 

Not trying hard enough because I don't create flour "snowball" fights in my kitchen with a doll just so I can clean it up. 

The source of my hatred is two fold. 

One: Elf mission creep.

 There is the Elf ($30)

 An ever-growing assortment of Elf on the Shelf accessories. 

A push to have multiple elves especially if you have multiple children. 

You might need two because your Elf is lonely and needs a companion. 

Elf on the Shelf is now for birthdays.

I'm not sure what that Elf is counting down, or who Elf is reporting back to unless Santa is also engaged in mission creep and is taking over birthdays. 

Reason Two for Hating Elf  On the Shelf:
The elaborate scenarios that people, and by people I mean Moms.
 create for Elf.

Although the real moms I know who have drank the Elf Kool Aid generally seem to remember the need for a new location at 3 a.m. just before packing lunches and have only the engery to throw the Elf in the fridge where he will be found in the later morning clinging to a bottle of orange juice or fling him onto a high shelf in the den.

Other Moms, the Professional Internet Moms, go all out. They make lists and post them. They have a plan. They are having fun, damn it, and seem to say "look at all the thought I put into this lighthearted venture. Read my list! I rock being a mother and you, well, where is your list??"

But even Moms With A Plan don't grate on my nerves as much as Moms Who Make a Mess. I don't understand at all the Moms who throw flour all over their kitchen to show their Elf had a food fight. Or, below, bring in what looks like 10 pounds of sand to their entry way so they can clean it up later. 

I completely don't understand anyone who would shave their husband's head just to inspire a little extra Christmas magic.  And I hope it is someone's husband because if it isn't it is strange that the  Elf is witness to a crime and we all might be complicit in a felony.

To me it all screams of highly educated, highly creative women who got on the Mommy Track and now focus every bit of themselves --- Every Bit Of Themselves --- into making every moment of childhood magical and managed and fulfilling and, maybe there isn't even anything wrong with that, but they must tell EVERYONE that they are doing it. Better, apparently, than anyone else ever.

I come from the school of thought that sometimes, seriously, kids need to wonder about an imaginary friend and dream of Santa all on their own. My daughter's favorite thing when she was little was to make potions in the bathtub. I bought her bottles and bubbles and bath Crayons but I didn't digitize every wondrous thing that she did. (And some things were wondrous.)

It was the only time on most days that she was ever alone with her own thoughts and when she could do whatever she wanted.

So I will say this, Elf on the Shelf Moms, you win.

I don't have the time or inclination or the extra toilet paper to post a picture about how my Elf, who I imagine would be named Marvin Moonpants, wrapped my entire Christmas tree in Charmin.

But, please, this Menopausal Mom asks that the mission creep stops at birthdays. Let's not see the Elf on the Shelf Fourth of July Count Down Calendar.

3Ms: Mat Maid to Mom to Mid Life Crisis

I was a Mat Maid at Waggener High School  in 1982 where wrestling was, at the time, the sport.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of  fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But  even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose  that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team.  Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like  "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs,  two of them paying,  in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra,  in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter".  For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.