It’s more disturbing than road rage, soggier than a wet newspaper, and nastier than the moldy mystery food in the refrigerator.   It warms your body faster than a quick shot of tequila.

Hot Flash: The Perfect Personal Heating System.

Your body surface temperature always feels like 100 degrees.   People gossip about your continuous glow.

“She just had a facial,” or  “She had work done.”  The only work I had done was housework.

I have patented that glow with a daily facial.  My face is dried with my personal mini fan.  I painstakingly apply make-up, pausing to dab at the beading sweat.  After lacquering on the final coat, the mini fan dries my efforts.  On a good day, I look great for ten minutes, before it starts melting like a slushy.

The hot flash nabs you anytime, like last winter while shopping.  I had found the perfect blazer, but realized it was inappropriate to go top less underneath…unless I was auditioning for the new reality show, “I Want to be a Middle Aged Hooters Chick.”

Flagging down a salesgirl to aid me seemed the only viable solution.

“This turtleneck would be so cute underneath,” she said perkily.   I might as well have parked myself in a sauna.

“Do you have something less constricting?”

“How about this V-neck sweater?” she said.

By now the beads of sweat were doing the “Electric Slide” on my forehead.   I spied a sleeveless camisole and grabbed that baby before another pre-menopausal woman saw it.  My outfit was complete.

That night, I crawled into bed, the pre-winter gales howling outside.  The bedroom window was ajar, heat turned down to sixty degrees, and I was donning a short-sleeved tee shirt.   Hubby was huddled under the covers, in a down jacket, and a pair of earmuffs,

“Cripes, it’s five degrees outside; can you close the damn window?  You could hang meat in here for heaven’s sake,” he muttered.

Hmm…hadn’t thought of that.  I was a little short on freezer space.

“I’m as warm as a hot buttered rum,” I said purring, while perched on top of the mountains of blankets he had scrounged.  Hubby was considering a space heater until I convinced him it would set the mattress on fire.  Next thing I knew I caught him rubbing two sticks together over the pages he tore out of my latest book club book.

Seeing he was on the verge of delirium, I relented and closed the window.  Today, our bedroom fan runs twenty-four/seven and I now sleep in tank top and shorts.

Hubby has learned to wrap himself in a parka as he exits the shower, knowing that I will have the bathroom window ajar.  He ducks past my personal fan before icicles start to form on his hair.  His dreams of installing a steam shower have been washed down the drain and he now keeps that darn space heater in our closet.

With summer here, Hubby catches a little break.   I keep the AC at a balmy 68 degrees.   The meat that normally hangs in our bedroom is back in the freezer.   Everyone else in the house keeps a sweater handy and the neighbors can hear my husband’s expletives every time the electric bill arrives.  I can’t save him money year round.

Hot Flash, it sounds so sexy and seductive.  It could be the name for an exotic dancer.   Somehow, perspiring, while sporting that dewy glow, doesn’t make me feel sexy.

Ladies, you are not alone in your sultry moments and may the Flash be with you.

Visit Laurie’s personal site here.

During times of high stress, I’ve found that going out to the garden and pulling a few weeds, or deadheading some flowers is very relaxing.   Gardening can be a time for reflection.   It allows me a quiet time to get away from everything, clearing the mind, and enjoying the fruits of my labor.   That is, until Mother Nature decides to interrupt the tranquil moment, by sending a slithering snake your way.

I hate snakes!

They startle you when it’s least expected, slithering out of crevices too small for any normal creature, mocking you as you run away screaming …Snake!!!

Now I don’t mind sharing with nature’s creatures, as long as they stay out of my way, don’t eat my plants, or scare the heck out of me.   We live on an acre and a half of land that borders prairies and wetlands.   There are more than enough places for these intrusive little creatures to find solace, excluding my gardens!

Yesterday, I was outside watering my plants, since Mother Nature had decided to be skimpy with rain this month.    I was enjoying the quiet solitude as I unrolled the hose and trudged across the yard.   Suddenly, there was a rather large snake glaring at me, daring me to encroach on his part of the back yard.

“Go on, get out of here,” I said as my heart pounded and I started to hyperventilate.

He lifted his head and hissed at me.   I gulped.  I’m pretty sure he gulped.   I tried giving him the “stink eye”.   He gave it right back.   It was a standoff.

“You’re lucky I don’t have a lawn mower or I would chase your slithering butt out of my yard.”

The snake sneered at me.

Really?  The gloves were off as I raced into the garage to grab something to frighten him off.   How about an axe?  No, too gruesome.   A shovel…I didn’t have the courage to chop him up.   I grabbed a rake, threw on a pair of boots and ran back to the yard.  He was gone.    On tiptoes, like a scene out of the cartoon “Tom and Jerry”, I searched around the yard, but he was nowhere to be found.   Glancing down at the hose, I finally decided my plants didn’t need watering that bad.   I’d rather look foolish doing a rain dance.

Later that night, my husband came in from mowing the yard and told me he had run over a snake by accident.

“Was he sneering at you when you hit him?”

“How would I know?  I didn’t see him until it was too late,” my husband said looking at me like I was suffering from heat stroke.

“Well that is one less snake, “ I said feeling so relieved.  Hah!  That served him right for hissing at me.

“ Not to worry.  I saw at least three others while I was mowing.”

Do you think snakes are smart enough to seek revenge?   Maybe I need to invest in a tazer.

Visit Laurie Fabrizio’s personal site here!

It appeared in my mail, disguised like an ordinary party invitation.  It beckoned my attention with, “you are invited to the ultimate shopping experience…” I’ll admit that it peaked my interest.

I arrived amidst the perky, cellulite- free thirty-something’s’.  As we made eye contact, I noticed their dewy complexions.  Either this was a group hot flash or there had been a George Clooney sighting.

The beautifully accessorized consultant handed out catalogs and began her presentation.

“So, for how many of you is this your first time?” she asked.

I had been to several of these demonstrations: Tupperware, jewelry, and even Pampered Puppy.  Glancing around, I noted the number of raised hands, like clueless fifth-graders before a sex education class.  Not a wrinkle among them.  How old were these women?  Twelve?

“By the end of this party, you’ll no longer be virgins.”

What kind of demonstration was this?  Panicking, I was breathing in and out of my purse, feigning searching for a mint.

“Tonight, you and friends will strip down to your undies.  I hope you wore your best ones.”

That information would have been appreciated before I left the house. Hopefully, my suck-it-in panties wouldn’t slingshot out of my pants, and blind someone.  I stole a look at the hostess, who was fanning herself like a nun at a nudist colony.

After viewing the entire collection on a size- four mannequin, we real sizes started to shop.   I clawed through the racks frantically trying to find something to fit my “I look my age” body.   My friend Shannon stared in disgust at an x-ray thin shirt, so small it wouldn’t have fit Barbie.

“Quick, into the storage area,” I said leading the way. “The light’s dim. No one will see us.”

Unfortunately I was sporting what my daughters refer to as my “Granny Panties.”  They cover the battle scars from two cesarean deliveries.  Okay, the scar now resembles the San Andres Fault, so that is how I justify my “Grannies.”

I glanced over.  What’s that? I never new Shannon had a tattoo!  Yikes.  She was also sporting a thong.  Oh no…she had been brainwashed by “Mom’s for Thongs,” in an undergarment conspiracy.

Wear a piece of super floss in place of underwear?  How uncomfortable is that?  Besides, I can’t even remember to floss my teeth. Why draw attention to where the cellulite fairy permanently resides?

“What’s with the thong?” I asked nonchalantly.  Feeling ancient, I shifted the “grannies” to half mast.  Voila…a mock bikini.

Shannon was stuffing her size fourteen pear- shaped body into a pair of size ten low- rise jeans.  “No panty lines and these are so comfortable.”

Next she’ll be singing “It’s My Panty and I’ll Floss If I Want To.”

Eventually I purchased a few items that I could squeeze into while shifting my fat rolls.  I was suddenly anxious to reach the solace of my car.

It was time to hoist those “grannies” back to where nature intended them to be.

Maybe my daughter was right.  Even Shannon had succumbed to peer pressure.  Tomorrow I would shed the “grannies” and consider buying some thongs.  Maybe wearing one would remind me to floss.   Then again…I think I will go for comfort rather than style.

Visit Laurie Fabrizio’s personal site here!