I wish there was a week – just one – without any terrible news close to home. But, between our presidency and global warming, it just doesn’t seem possible. The Northern part of California is burning in a way I have never seen in my 22 years in this state. The winds are supposed to start kicking down here tonight…pass the martini please….
Hot flashes are the least of menopause. You will want to drive a knife through your heart; you will want to leave your lover, no matter how much you have loved them. You will feel as though your life is over, because it is. You will realize for the first time that your whole life people have looked at you because you are a woman and people look at women – but now, suddenly, you are invisible. But then something magical happens:
Yes. The weekend again! One I can enjoy in full, assuming the plumber restores water to my abode. I have a long hike planned, and a peek into a Trisha Brown performance on Sunday. To satisfy both the bucolic and the city girls who reside in me. My week was punctuated by a few chuckles here and there and some mindless tv enjoyed in my pjs (having a proper excuse for not washing). I am passing it all along.
Until she divorced, when I was already in my 20s, my mother was a homemaker. Being the disgruntled teenager that I was, I criticized her to martyrdom for her choice not to work, as I saw it, and spend her time cooking two meals a day, shuttling my sister and I all over town and, the worst offense of all in my book, waiting on my father hand and foot.