The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The Good:
While home for my mom's 80th birthday extravaganza this past week, I attended a Cubs' game. You know, I'm really a simple soul. Give me a hotdog, a beer (even when the beer is Old Style and cost $7), and a sunny day in Wrigley Field, and I'm ineffably happy. The Cubs don't even have to win (good thing, or I wouldn't get to be happy very often). So, I was happy, and that was good.

But it got even better. When I went to purchase said $7 beer, the woman behind the counter asked me for my ID. Obviously a joke, right? I laughed good-naturedly. But then she looked at me sternly and pointed to a sign: "ALL CUSTOMERS AGED 35 AND UNDER MUST SHOW ID TO PURCHASE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES." I laughed again. "Yeah, right. I'm almost 50. And you think I'm 35?" And she said, she said, she actually said, "No way!" Yep. That's what she said. No way. Sigh. (She probably goes home and yells, "Honey! You shoulda seen it! I made another old lady so happy today.")

The Bad:
After a year without menstruating, I got my period. Well. Spotting, really. But quantity is not the issue. (Not the issue, heh heh heh. Get it? "issue"? Old-fashioned word for menstrual blood? Oh, never mind. Historians' pun.) No, it's quality. This is not the bright red blood of a fertile, nubile, brilliant young thing. Nope, this is old blood. Rusty looking. It conjures up words like dessication. And shriveled. Dried up. Haggard. Or just plain hag.

"Hag" is bad.

The Ugly:
Hugh and I drove home together. Chicago to Baton Rouge. In a VW Beetle. But that wasn't the ugly part. We had a good time. He ate and drank constantly and so had to pee every 30 minutes or so, but frankly it was sort of nice not to play my usual role of The Person on the Trip Who Always Needs the Toilet.

The ugly came when we got home. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, Hugh transformed from witty (if urination-challenged) companion into Total Shit of a Teenaged Son. Ugly? Umm, yes. But not really, not when compared to my own instant transformation from a reasonable and somewhat good-humored, if rather tired (and desperately in need of a massage) woman into the Mother From Hell. Frustrated, short-tempered, quick to jump from tight-lipped commands to shrieking demands.

A hag, plain and simple.

A hag in need of a hot dog. And a beer. And Wrigley Field.