I toyed with the idea of writing this for a few days. A little voice in the back of my head nagged, "You will never write in this town again." Obviously I didn't listen. Now, if that voice had said, "You will never write for money in this town again"... well that's a whole new ball game.
Anyway, there are some things a woman feels the need to wake her husband up from a full-on slumber to tell him. Like, "You used all of the milk for the coffee then put the empty container back in fridge." Or, "You left the seat up on the toilet." In fairness, there are likewise pressing questions that a hubby feels the need to wake wifey up from a deep sleep to ask. For example, "Do I have any tobacco?", "Is there any more wine?", and "Do you know where my black pen is?"
When I found the empty milk carton in the fridge this past weekend, I decided to stay gender neutral. I took the high road for fear of later use of the phrase, "It must be that time." Actually, I prefer to be in charge of when and how I blame my hormones (using the malady mainly for sympathy or a desire for chocolate). Believe me, I am fully aware of "that time." Mostly I have managed to get through without hurting anyone, yet there are some times when I feel the need to heed the call of the old biblical days and send myself to the outskirts of town for three days.
I've heard the cries of women in the tents outside of town: "Men don't know what it's like to go through this, or to have babies." No worries, though, creation itself has leveled that playing field. Though the man doesn't have a cycle, bear a child, or go through menopause, he pays for it much longer.
And over the last decade or so, man has indeed acquired his own malady excuse if he so chooses to use it. Low T. These days men and women can choose their own acronymous ailment, each with a 30-day script saddled with warnings of symptoms similar to and worse than the condition—High T, Low T, HRT, PMS. If you'll allow me this short sentence to go all King James on you—these conditions go way back. E.g, Jonah (Low T). King David (High T), and Jezebel (PMS or HRT or both).
As for Don and I, separate bathrooms have cured the toilet seat dilemma amd chocolate and merlot reign king and queen of the holistic keep-Mama-happy elixirs.
If all else fails and I feel the snippy need to "Tell hubby something he doesn't know about himself every 30 days" (per Ron White via my hubby), I will pack my bags and head to the tents at the edge of town for a spell. Wifey gets to the tents at edge of town and unpacks bags… “Awww shucks, lookey here. I accidentally packed the remote control.“
