Sometimes It's Hard to Be a Woman

There was a point in my teen years when I started finding Harlequin Romance novels in the bathroom that my mom would buy at the grocery store and read on her short breaks from work.  Stealing small moments to herself, a full time worker and co-owner of a restaurant, a mother of a tribe and taking on an adopted son of her brother's.  She went full smarmy, the covers featured torn peasant blouses and couples embraced in some lame forbidden passion.  First of all I was a snotty teenager that wanted to race in and confront her on her choice of reading material.  But I never did because I truly loved and respected my mom so much as a person.  She was incredibly special but I was so shocked at discovering this side of her. Surely, she knew this was pure silliness.  We all knew my dad wasn't exactly the most romantic guy just by his choice of gifts.  His efforts were pathetic and he was pretty cheap bless his heart.  I remember he once bought her a nightgown set right out of the 50s that he must have bought at the five and dime for a big anniversary present.  He didn't wrap it and presented it on the plastic hanger that adjoined the pieces.  We just shook our heads, poor mom.  She never let on that it mattered.  Then when she seemed to drop much of her primping and feminine details, I figured that was just her getting older.  But I was curious to understand what prompted the abrupt change and hoped she didn't just give up on feeling attractive.  These books made me realize she had needs and desires just like the rest of us. 

I think it had something to do with our friend menopause because I'm going through some similar strange goofiness that I hope goes aways soon.  Hormones are powerful and admittedly, I've fallen prey to a few too many romantic comedies of late for my tastes.  No one prepares you for this time when your body, mind and spirit all feel like they're taking different roads and life becomes so out of sync.

While P was gone we had us a heat wave, so there was not a lot of cooking happening.  I did however, manage to pamper my stomach, at least with this beef ragu sauce over fresh spinach pasta and on top, I mixed in a little dollop of pesto.  I mixed the noodles with the sauce and added some pasta water, then drizzled with a good tasting Olive Oil.  Other then the fake Parmesan this was delicious and reminded me of a fresh Pappardelle dish I had in the Village some years ago.

Time May Change Me, But I Can't Trace Time

June was a fuzzy blur.  Lots of take out food.  I found myself constantly in the need of emotional rescue.  P was advising me daily.  Giving me pep talks, prepping me for the next round.  I was bloodied with one eye swollen shut, had taken a few punches to the gut.  Not in good shape whatsoever. Nothing other than life was happening to me but that alone was enough to take me down to my knees.  I was weak and feeble minded.

I'm in what they call the 'change of life'.  And they ain't kiddin'.  What a whacked out trip it's been so far.  I'm sad, I'm happy.  I want to kill you.  I find you fascinating. I see, smell and feel stuff like I never have before.  Another moment I'm numb to the world.  Everything is new and scary or it's Groundhog Day over and over.  A continuous PMS cycle complete with cramps, high anxiety and a vat of worry.

I knew shit was getting weird when I started hanging with the feral cats.  I found where they stayed and would only sometimes bring food but mostly just go stare at them, take pictures.  I'd gaze at the water off the old piers and go into those deep Sybil trances while riding my bike popping awake only to be shocked at how long I was gone.

Yeah, my sister says when this is over I'll get a clarity and strong sense of self not yet felt before.  I'm all for that.  I even forgot who I was at this point. Be cool to be someone who doesn't cry every two hours. Been hovering in some purgatory of nothingness for too long.  At least they deliver here otherwise I'd be screwed.