Some of you might notice that I run Google AD Sense on this blog. It’s making me fabulously wealthy  – NOT! Of course, one can’t disparage Google for that. I think it has more to do with my outstanding number of followers – more specifically, the lack thereof.

My college daughter recently posted an installment on the blog she started as a class assignment for critical writing. She didn’t waste any words in pointing out that the million or so bloggers looking for their fifteen-minutes of fame would do better to stop writing what they think people want to hear, and instead write their passionate, unvarnished, maybe even ugly, truth.

So, for now, I won’t worry about followers or fans, I’ll just try to write closer to the bone of my truth (not always easy when I know the whole fam damily is reading – oh well, sucks to be them.)

Back to Ad Sense. The idea is, that based on the blog post content, random ads for products and services that should interest my readers will display.  Clicks on the ads accumulate cents for me (cents, Ad Sense, get it?).

Let me just say that I never did this hoping to make money.

 Well, okay, I hoped that maybe I’d make some money from it, but I never really thought I would. Looks like I was right about that.

Anyway, I recently noticed a trend in the ads that are displaying.  Weight loss products would be the nice thing to say, but these are blatant  LOOSE BELLY FAT ads.  Then there are the sales pitches for anti wrinkle creams and cosmetic dermatology.

One installment netted me an ad for Goddess Dresses.  Now that’s what I’m talking about! Just one nagging little detail though – it was on a post that contained a picture of my middle daughter and two of her diva friends at their high school prom. Hhmmm.

Where are the ads for cruises to the Greek Isles?  How about luxury health spas, Jaguar sedans and little blue boxes from Tiffany’s?

What on earth did I write that netted me the ads for a popular piney-scented cleaning solution and another well known germ destroying spray.  Yikes!

Okay, maybe I understand the ad for a marriage counselor practicing in my neighboring state. I do rant about the institution of marriage now and again. But am I to glean from this situation that some powers that be, sitting on their sweat-pants clad butts in ergonomically correct chairs at Google headquarters, are presuming that my readers are an unhappy bunch of, germaphobic, desperate housewives who shop
for their daughters prom dresses in the mini-diva, designer department?

Goddess! How depressing is that?

Here I was thinking that my audience was made up of strong, confident, self assured women setting their worlds on fire and dancing across their bridges one step ahead of the flames.

I apologize, dear, loyal (few) readers.  I’ll try, in future, to follow my daughter’s advice and give you a little something to set it off.

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GET A ^ LIFE at MAD Goddess

CAUGHT IN MY MIDLIFE MICROSCOPE

Recently I was asked to read some of my essays to a group of women from middle age through golden years. About half way into the gig, I noticed that many of them looked like frightened deer frozen in the glare of oncoming headlights.

I realized that they had never heard another woman speak about mid-life frustrations with such candor - well not publicly at least. I admit it - I’m not one to mince my words these days.

One woman asked me if I’ve ever regretted anything I’ve written or said publicly. No. I haven’t. I dare to say out loud:

• Marriage isn’t perfect and is sometimes a hellofalota work. Oh my!
• Kid’s aren’t perfect and they are most times a hellofalotta work. Oh my!
• There are things about my husband I don’t like. Oh my!
• There are things about my kids I will never understand! Oh my.
• There are days I wish I had no husband and no children and I could just go where the wind blows me! Oh my!
• My humor is sometimes (okay, most of the time) sarcastic. Oh my!

"Doesn't your husband take offense to what you say?" an audience member asked me.

My husband doesn’t read this stuff but all of my children do. Some of my words get spit back out in conversation. I’m sure they all wish I would retire to my rocker with my knitting and crossword puzzles. Instead I get up on my soapbox and poke holes in the pretty bubbles of familial dysfunction.

51 lashes with a wet noodle to me – one for every year I have dared to live and not be always perfect, or always kind, or always understanding. After I’ve taken my lashes and paid my debt to society, might I be able to presume I’ve earned the right to believe that as an adult women, nobody has the god-given or any other kind of right to tell me what I should do, what I should think or what I can say? Might I go one step further and presume that any sane woman would get pissed off when she is told those things.

We all live and love, we all laugh and we all cry. As women we all share our joys and sorrows, our ups and our downs with the people in our lives. We do it over a cup of coffee at a friend’s kitchen table, with the phone in hand late at night, in an email or maybe in a blog. I write what I know, what I live.

I could be mistaken (it seems nobody is talking about this), but I think I have also said . .

• I love life and I love sharing it with my husband, children and grandchildren.
• I have thoroughly enjoyed being a mom and I couldn’t be prouder of my daughters.
• I am proud of all my accomplishments – those I’ve achieved on my own and those I’ve worked at with my husband.
• I won’t give up on my future happiness no matter how far out to sea my ship may be. And if it springs a leak, I only hope my loved ones are willing to keep bailing with me.

I have no interest in telling other people how they should live, but I certainly do hold an interest in telling them how I would like to be treated - or not treated as the case might be.

If any of you are fans of the Red Green Show on PBS, then you know the mans’ prayer (my husband hates whenever I bring this up). “I’m a man, but I can change, if I have to, I guess.”

Then there are the women. We have spent a life time giving to and taking care of everybody we love and for some reason we can’t quite figure out, they haven’t put us up on a pedestal like a queen. In fact, they kind of stomp all over us like a door-step. Can’t say I blame them. We’ve trained them to be well taken care of. The more we give and do, the more they come to expect it.

I would offer this as the woman’s prayer: “I’m a woman and I just know that if I work hard enough and keep right on trying, I can make everybody around me happy and they will treat me wonderfully. I just haven’t done enough yet – or maybe I haven’t done it right yet, but I’ll just keep trying, I guess, until I get it right.”

And then one day, we become MAD Goddess women. We become exhausted. Finally, we are transformed into that fury for which hell hath no comparison.

“I am a MAD Goddess woman and I am not required to contribute to the happiness of any person – husband, child, parent, friend or co-worker, who refuses to participate in manifesting my happiness as well.”

Think of it as a see-saw. It doesn’t work if each one of you isn’t lifting the other one up.

. . . . . . mid
GET A ^ LIFE at MAD Goddess

WIELDING A BIG STICK

I’ve been spending the last several days contemplating where my middle age is going from here. That is the most mental exercise I am indulging in while on vacation in Florida, other than contemplating what color I should paint my pinkies to flatter my deepening tan.

Could I live like this every day for the rest of my life? The short answer for this born and bred Midwesterner is, “You betcha!" There’s only one glitch. What would I do with my husband? He is your typical man retired before he should be -- he doesn’t know what to do with his time.

In fairness, there is an added complication. He didn’t retire willingly; his heart gave out after too many years of neglecting his health. Now, the plan to stay alive includes no more physical activity than walking a few blocks after a preventative dose of nitro and only on his good days. Good days have as much to do with his moods as with his physical condition. Can't blame him there

His life as he knew it is over. His laboring heart also won’t hold for any of the activities he planned in retirement. Golfing, swimming, home repair and improvement. To add to the conundrum, his laundry list of other physical ailments isn’t making travel easy or pleasant.

So where does that leave me? My life as I knew it, is over. With both of us suffering the same loss, why are we having so much difficulty understanding each other?

I want to know what's going to happen with my life long plan to get the heck out of frozen tundra land during the winter months? What about my visions of a small, two story cottage or the storybook garden? The structures and foundations would be his handy work, the brush strokes of colored petals waving across the canvas of our backyard would be mine. Now he can’t climb stairs and chores are completely off the list.

I planned to write in the mornings while he puttered in the garage, doing whatever it is that men do when they putter. In the afternoons we’d walk to the grocer’s for quart of milk or to pick up the daily news. We’d ride our bikes through the neighborhood streets. Heck, I’d even golf a round or two with him.

Instead, when I try to write in the mornings he impatiently waits for me to finish. Right now, on vacation, he is sitting three feet from me looking as bored as any human being can be. He glances my way about every 5 minutes. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I can guess.

He seems jealous of my ability to occupy myself, to engage my brain in something that thrills me. Observation indicates that he is only able to achieve that from external sources; watching sporting events, watching action films, reading the newspaper and grumping at the anchors on CNN. I understand one can only do so much of that and then, apparently, I am all that’s left to entertain him.

The MAD Goddess in me wants to scream, “Exactly when did I become responsible for your contentment?” The answer is, of course, when I said I do. My 50 years in the conditioning of what a wife does is hard enough habit for me to shake. I indulge him to keep the peace – just like my mother did with my father. She had to tape the one and only soap opera she watched, her measly hour of self indulgence, because during that one hour my father seemed to absolutely need her attention for anything and everything. She could watch her show in peace only when he dozed off for his afternoon nap.

It’s difficult for me to break the habits of the good girl, good daughter and good wife indoctrination of my middle class rearing, even with all that’s at stake. It’s impossible for him to consider another model of wife. And why wouldn’t it be? He has nothing to gain and everything to lose.

And that is precisely where men always get it wrong. My husband has one choice, get with the program or get out of my way. For thirty years I have devoted myself to raising and caring for children, caring for a husband and being on demand for aging parents’ needs, both physical and emotional. I have waited, patiently for my time and now that it’s here, I am not giving it up.

He’s afraid that I will leave him. I won’t. It isn't the answer. I will stand firm, stand up and speak out for what I need. His response is entirely up to him, but our life together will be much more joyous if he can (first) discern my needs in the midst of his neediness, and (second)understand that they are as important to his ultimate happiness as are his own.

I remember my father’s bitter complaints about my mother’s “change of life”. They were the worst years of his life. That sentiment angered my mother because she shielded him from most of the emotional upheaval of those awakening years. Being in her shoes now, I know what she was thinking. “Mister, you don’t know the half of what I wanted to say and do.”

The French have a saying that when a woman loses her blood she finds her voice. I’m sure that is inconvenient, irritating, perplexing and especially frightening for the men who have been in charge. That’s too bad for them, and if they don’t like it I suggest their best course is to learn to speak little and listen much. They might also be ready to duck because now we are carrying the metaphorical big stick.


. . . . . . mid
GET A ^ LIFE at MAD Goddess.com

THE GOOD B -ITCH OF THE NORTH

The picture below was on the front of a birthday card I received for the recent big 5-0. I like her. I am like her. She is definitely a MA'd Goddess woman.


I hang with a group of gal-pals who embody the MA'd Goddess philosophy. We’re a diverse group of mostly middle aged woman working to maintain a sense of balance on this roller coaster ride we call life.


Collectively, we are the Lunachics ~ a name we chose to embrace the spirit of Luna, Goddess of the moon, but also to keep others guessing.

Women in groups have always been labeled. I think it’s because it makes men nervous when too many of us get together in one place. They’re okay with PTA, altar societies and any women’s auxiliary attached to an otherwise fraternal organization.
Book clubs start to push the envelope – we might be getting wild ideas in our heads.

Men feel much safer when women meet for quilting bees, sewing circles or even to stitch-n-bitch. The reassurance that we’re keeping our hands busy with the duties of domestic chores allows them to sleep at night with both eyes closed. Idle hands . . . devils workshop and all that jazz.

As for the Chics, we’re a pretty typical group of women, brought together by common experience and bonded by the unconditional support we give to one another. Just because we call ourselves the Lunachics and we meet under the light of the full moon . . . and we have no definable agenda (at least that we admit), doesn’t necessarily mean we’re traveling off the beaten path.

Oh sure, we torture our husbands and significant others with tales of secret ritual and midnight-moonlight nude dancing, but trust me – none of us is interested in playing show and see. Like over-ripe fruit that was once solid and firm, we’ve gone from juicy to loosey.

The Lunachics remain a mystery to the men in their lives. Sometimes, we’re a mystery even to ourselves, but that’s not stopping us from trying to figure it all out.
As to keeping my hands busy, I prefer filling them with a glass of good wine and some decadent chocolate treat to any kind of needle work.

THE GOOD BITCH of the NORTH

“I’m just a bitch!” I confessed.
“Oh, but you’re a good one,” she said in empathetic tone.

I’m getting closer to the day, to the dream,

of sitting pretty on my throne.

Old Biddy?
Hell No!
Let him be the King of all her perceives.
I am the Queen of my Destiny.

I’ll eat my cake, with chocolate and Stoli.
I’ll drink a toast with the Chics who know me.
I’m a bitch, and a good one at that.
Those who don’t like it, can just kiss my royal asp.

Garden of the MAD Goddess

About this time every year I like to indulge my nature Goddess aspect. After being buried in snow up to my hoo-ha for six months, then spending another eight weeks or so scrutinizing Mother Nature for any signs of green life, I accept that summer in the northland is arriving late, as usual.

Now, if I lived where things warm up a bit more than 70-degrees before the dog days of August, or where the bodies of water were bath-temp tidal pools, I might take a skinny dip and indulge in some au naturale' sun bathing on a large, flat rock. Instead, I invoke the virtue of patience and begin filling my bird feeders, watching for the return of the birds on the spring breezes.

I’ve learned to be happy sipping my morning brew, wrapped in my fleece robe with fluffy chenille sox on my feet. I tuck back into a sunny corner protected from the wind and chant, “I do believe in summer, I do believe in summer, I do believe in summer.” Where are those damn hot flashes when I need them?

When I think of a nature Goddess, I conjure images of the Disney Princesses (I’m a child of the 60’s, what do you expect?). I imagine strolling through my acre-sized yard, which I like to refer to as the Garden of the Godddess, with small woodland creatures flocking around me and bluebirds lighting on my shoulders.

In reality, I talk to the feathered and furred, the four-legged and the eight legged, and even the no legged slitherers. I'm old, I can act as flat out crazy as I want to these days. The animals tolerate my eccentricity, most likely because I keep filling the feeders and growing the flowers and vegetables they eat – or that attract the critters they eat (food chain principal – more on that later). I keep a respectful distance from the stingers and biters. I have just one expectation; within the boundaries of the MA’d Goddess’s acre, everybody better get along and play nice.

There’s a new visitor to our little sanctuary. A brazen young buck still wet behind his nubbin, little antlers, he’s been spotted in several locations around the village. Striking at night, he’s destroyed half-a-dozen of my birdfeeders at last count and gorged himself on close to 25 pounds of birdseed. He is about to incur the full wrath of the MAD Goddess.

I’m a pacifist; you know, do no harm and all that jazz, but I admit to a dark side. For instance, the squirrels and I have an understanding; they are welcome to forage from the ground beneath the bird feeders. Occasionally I have to remind them of that rule. I 've switched to a pellet gun instead of the .22 caliber automatic action rifle, so there are no longer any squirrel carcasses to hang from the feeder pole (a warning to other would-be marauders). Time is short. The MAD Goddess doesn't waste it on nice.

I don’t ask for much, really. It brings me great joy to sit on my deck, sipping coffee, watching the birds and enjoying my Disney Princess world for a few minutes in the morning before the real insanity of my day kicks me in the butt.

As for little Bambi, he’s got a lesson to learn. There’s room for everybody at the MAD Goddess banquet table. Either you’re a guest, or the main course – food chain, you know.