At 51, it appears Aunt Flo is departing forever. I can only hope. Why? I have been described as surly lately. I fear my family is going to start grinding up hormones in my coffee to keep me from going into a homicidal rage.
Example: at the grocery store, my husband parks our car.
“The whole back end of the car is hanging out,” I say. “We’re going to get hit. I’d pull up.”
Sighing, he makes a big show out of putting his seatbelt back on. Restarting the car. Putting it in first gear. Pulling up further.
As we head into the store, I realize he has moved the car forward approximately one quarter of an inch. Super.
Inside, he “accidentally” hits my ankles with the cart. I accept his tepid apology and send him to the end of the aisle for mushrooms then shout, “Honey, did you ever find those hemorrhoid suppositories?”
He yells back, “Yes, my darling heart, I found them close to the Monistat you needed. Is extra strength going to be enough?”
He’s quick, I’ll give him that. It’s on.
The next day, I replace the tennis shoes in his gym bag with black dress shoes. He doesn’t react but it’s probably all he thinks about as he saws the heel off one of my pumps.
I paint his toenails red while he sleeps and giggle all day until I get to the gym where I discover all the music on my iPod has been replaced by several hours’ worth of Gregorian chants.
The next morning he’s in the downstairs shower and hears me come in. “Truce!” he screams, from behind the curtain, but I’m too busy smearing Vaseline on his glasses to respond.
The shower curtain pulls back just as I finish. I look at him innocently. “Ok, truce. I’m out of tricks anyway.”
“I don’t trust you.” He eyes me suspiciously.
He should be suspicious because I’m most certainly not out of tricks. I could do this all day, every day. I wait on the other side of the bathroom door shaking in silent hilarity, waiting for him to notice his glasses.
I guess he noticed because midway through my shower upstairs, the water shuts off. I hear him on the other side of the shower curtain whistling.
“Say Uncle and I’ll turn the water back on,” he chortles.
“UNCLE!” I shriek, soap burning my eyes. The loss is humiliating but I admire him for his daring.
I have married well.
I can tell it’s going to be a fun ride on the Hormone Train. Luckily I’m married to someone with the patience of Job……and the occasional “Mambo Red” pedicure.
This piece previously appeared on Love, Lust and Laptops. Christine Cacciatore is a multi-published author who lives—and loves—to write. Together with her sister, Jennifer Starkman, she has published the magical novels Baylyn, Bewitched and Cat, Charmed, with the third book Elise, Evermore coming out soon. On her own, she has written Noah Cane’s Candy, a sassy holiday short romance and Knew You’d Come, a spicy paranormal romance novella. Also, Chris ventured into the Kindle Worlds Mary O’Reilly paranormal series and has written Trouble Lake and Grave Injury. They’re the perfect books to curl up with any time of year but especially Halloween…because they’re chock full of ghosts!