From the estrogen files … archived but not forgotten.
Time to smash the rose-colored glasses.
Damn it! I’m moody. This gloomy weather and the gray drippy sky doesn’t help. I want to be five years old again, find a mud puddle, jump in it, and ruin my 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 menu. She was one of the first working moms in the neighborhood. While other mothers 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 in the burbs. Most nights, my two brothers, father, and I dined on a variety of chicken, TV dinners, tuna casserole, or meatloaf, which mirrors the complexity of my cooking cuisine, minus the tuna casserole.
Needless to say, I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Before getting married and taking my husband’s last name, he begged me to take a cooking course called “How to boil water?” Somehow I managed to pass the class even though I burned the water.
Which brings me back to “Doh!”
Tonight in the present, we’re having leftovers again. When in a hypersensitive state, I try to stay away from carving knives and incendiary devices a.k.a. the stove.
God, why does the ceiling hang so low it crushes my skull, squeezing my cerebrum out through my ears. Some of you might understand this brain wreck. Some of you might think I’m a whiny bitch and call long distance to say, “Why not exercise your troubles away and take a hike?”
Because sweating will further depress me. My mental state is fragile. Only a hot bath, chocolate cake, and a refreshing cocktail on an inflatable tray will save me. Then, it’s off to bed where I’ll dream the dream and wake up to face another day of hormonal hell.