I'm Not Premenopausal; I'm Just A Bitch . . . and other delightful tales

Let me start out by showing off the wonderful present Mr. C and I received from my aunt:

(Mr. C really wanted you to see his candy)

She felt every good wanna-be-1950’s-housewife should have a good 1950’s-style apron when teaching a nearly-non-existent baking course. Receiving the package with the beautiful aprons was a fantastic pick-me-up. It’s so nice to have pretty handmade things, as opposed to the catastrophes I continually insist on creating.  Take, for example, the toddler-sized comforter I recently sewed for Mr. C:

Compare my Frankenstein blanket edges to the clean, crisp ones on my aunt's apron:

Professional seamstresses the world over are shuddering at their sewing machines.

I was truly grateful for my aunt’s lovely gift, and it came – as her gifts often do – with impeccable timing: I was a little grumpy today. Not that that’s unusual, mind you, but let me show you what made me grumpy:

How many hats does one man need? And how many places are necessary in which to store said hats? And why, why must they be in the most random of unnecessary places? (Is the water bottle cold?)  Hello! We have a hat rack! Too bad it’s being used to store a snorkel mask (we’re land-bound) and a pair of dusty binoculars.

In other news:

A few nights ago a dear friend of mine was complaining about her hormones. She has suddenly found herself to be acting a little bipolar and, since she is past . . . a certain age . . . the assumption is that she’s getting close to embarking on that great feminine journey, the Change Of Life. You know, the one complete with hot flashes and terrible mood swings? I’m actually a little jealous, because I have terrible mood swings, and have nothing so socially-acceptable to blame them on.

I know menopause is no joke (although “Menopause: The Musical” seems to have made quite a show of contradicting that). As my friend eagerly clutched my hand, she bemoaned her sudden decrease in eyesight and her inexplicable need to randomly dissolve into tears. Then she unexpectedly started laughing happily over how much she loved having my family as part of her life. Before the last giggle had faded, she shot forward to look seriously into my eyes: “Enjoy the next twenty years of your life,” she intoned, “because they really are the golden times.”

Which gives me a lot to look forward to, since my eyesight is already terrible, I’m never sure if I’m going to cry or snort at weddings, and the most exciting thing in my life right now is my twice-weekly visit to the chiropractor.

But I know what my friend is saying, and I’m grateful for what I have. These last 16 months of being home all day in a perpetually messy house with three males who like ‘poop’ jokes have still been the best times of my life. And hopefully the good times will only get better.

I get to burn things in the kitchen, sew masterpieces of stitching disasters, teach Mr. C by example what not to repeat on the playground, and then turn all my failures into triumphs by blogging about them. You’ve no idea how much my pathetic ego is soothed reading a funny comment left after a post or receiving a lovely pep-me-up gift suitable for a pitiful toxic housewife. It’s really quite cathartic.

My dear friend is searching for an outlet for her current emotions. “Maybe I should start blogging!” she suggested brightly.

Which is, I think, a fantastic idea: tons of women would benefit from a menoblog.