I was aghast to rise and see winter on the trees, and settled on the lawn... my calendula are covered over in a snowy blanket, so there are no more crops. I bagged the last dry florets today... I'm overcome with that gripping numb reality that says, "snow tires NOW", "get the clothespins in NOW", and who can forget "wipe your feet NOW"...
The first snow is like losing your virginity... You can't say "I didn't like that, so I want to go back a be a virgin again." No matter how unpleasant the experience, you are changed... I'm at the other end of the spectrum. Winter's arrival is like menopause's arrival - cold, hard, fast and not predicted. My emotional landscape is covered in some schizophrenic crap and I easily fall and slip in it.
Like tonight. So not a stellar night to be writing anything the world will read. Except to say a dear friend, while visiting on the weekend, suggested I have too many spatulas. I countered that not all of them are for the same purpose, and I am writing a cookbook - all kitchen tools are on deck these days. She didn't believe me... she thinks I'm hoarding spatulas. Weird Al Yankovic and I are maybe the only people in the world who appreciate spatulas - he pays homage to them in a video where the protagonist goes to spatula world.
Maybe it's not menopause after all... maybe it's the attack on my culinary tool collection. I suggested I might take some spatulas up to the bedroom - isn't that a novel usage? My visiting friend just laughs at me, and says she misses my humour. Good thing she lives far away when I've slipped on my hormonal nightmare and landed in the sewage.
However, my husband, who turned 61 today, is knee-deep in the menopausal morass.
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