In our home, we suffer from what I like to call the Rh factor: Raging hormones. My teenagers have got too many; I don’t have enough. I feel like going into the girl’s bedroom at night like Buffy the peri-menopausal vampire, and hooking her up to an I.V. and draining her blood. Come on, give mommy your estrogen, come on, she’s growing a moustache.
I really don’t know why we go to the Middle East for oil, when in fact we could use menopausal women as an alternative heat source. We could plug our fingers into the furnace. Of course, those living with us would have to remind us why we went down into the furnace room in the first place.