These are 
the dark days, 
followed 
by even 
darker nights. 

Maybe I should remove the lens shields from my rose-colored glasses.

Damn it! I’m moody. This gloomy wet weather and gray drippy sky doesn’t help. I want to be five years old again and find a mud puddle to jump in and ruin my new black patent leather shoes. Being sent to bed without dinner would be a fair trade off, as tuna casserole would likely have been on the dinner rotation schedule.

Back then my mother didn’t have an elaborate dinner menu. She was one of the first working moms in the affluent neighborhood where I grew up. While the other moms spent their days at health clubs or boutiques, my mom went back to school to earn her broker’s license and then sold real estate before it was socially acceptable. Most nights, my two brothers, father, and I dined on a variation of chicken, TV dinners, tuna casserole, or meat loaf, which sounds similar to my current cooking options, minus the tuna casserole.

I’m a disaster in the kitchen. When my husband and I first started getting serious, he asked me to take a cooking course called, “How to boil water.” I think I was the only one in the class who actually burned the water.

Tonight in the present, we’ll be having leftovers again for dinner. In my highly unpredictable state, I’m scared to go near the carving knives or stove with its incendiary devices.

God, why does the ceiling feel so low that it’s crushing my skull and squishing my brains out through my ears. Some of you may know what I’m talking about. Some of you might just think I’m a whiny bitch. You might be right and wonder, Why not exercise your troubles away, and take a walk or a spin on the treadmill? Because sweating will only further depress me. My mental state is that fragile. Only a hot bath with a large piece of chocolate cake and a refreshing cocktail on a tray with water wings will help. Then it’s off to bed where I’ll dream the dream and then wake up to face another day of hormonal hell.