Post #12

Sick of being the family doormat

News from Hormone Country · Filed Under · Localized Turbulence

I met up with my Sister Crones yesterday. We had a nice afternoon tea (without the caffeine because we can’t sleep if we have that. And as fully paid up members of the 3am club aka waking up at 3 for no FUCKING good reason, we have to watch what we eat or drink to stop getting the wrong kind of buzz). So we’re sitting there chatting (okay, okay, ranting and raving like a bunch of loons) and Maggie Crone pipes up feebly, with a tone that can only be described as defeat. If the tone was a COLOR it would be greige, like dirty mop water. “I should just lie down and let everyone walk over me. I’m just the family doormat.” She said.

Well THAT DID IT. It set off five Crones like some gaggle of shrieking witches in a Shakespearean cave. It’s enough whooping and shrieking to put a Banshee reunion to shame. The barista looks up, but quickly returns to work shaking his head. For a second I think he ponders kicking us out (like a few other coffee shop managers have been IDIOTIC enough to do due to the maximum mayhem we can cause! But then he weighs up his chances, realizing it would be VERY bad to take on one crone, never mind five! He may be the wisest man we know ;). So we’re half commiserating, half shrieking at Maggie Crone. WE KNOW because we’re DOORMATS TOO.

I’m lucky to have Tatter Cloak who mostly understand my woes, (and we don’t have kids, just a cat and two dogs), but sometimes he needs a nudge when I’m half dead from work then putting dinner on the table, cleaning the toilet and other grubby chores. At these times I can’t help feeling like a doormat. In a rare moment of peace the Sister Crones are billing and cooing as Maggie Crone rattles off the litany of trespasses against her. She doesn’t even pause for breath.

“They see me crying or in pain and stare at me like I’m insane or a raging embarrassment. Then as if nothing ever happened they ask for dinner, or money for the mall. Or where their clean sports kit is, or my husband’s car keys?”

More ayes and boos follow. And even more sympathy to go with our decaffeinated tea. But why for fuck’s sake is it SO hard for the people around us to understand that menopause is nasty and debilitating. It’s not just a physical assault, it’s emotional warfare that has us clutching at straws or drugs or anything to make it all go away. When our kids or partners get a hang nail it’s the end of the world. The fuss, the angst. Do we look vacant then ask for dinner? No. So why don’t they care? Don’t they get it or are we menopausal women just surrounded by a bunch of selfish pricks? It’s still up to us, we the ‘hormonal car crashes that vaguely resemble women,’ to pick up their trivial crap that isn’t important? My brother comes to visit and he’s not just clueless, he’s a downright chauvinist who thinks women just nag to get attention. So now he rarely gets invited round and even Tatter Cloak rolls his eyes hard at his antics. But my bother as I call him, has always been a selfish git.

Maggie Crone has now progressed onto advanced ranting, she’s gone up an octave, quite shrill she is. Her eyes are flashing with fire; she’s REALLY riled up now the bit’s between her teeth. We sit back proud and impressed at her energy. But ranting with the fury of a supernova is INVIGORATING, then WHAM, you’re spent. She collapses back in her seat and cradles her mug.

But everything she said is right. It’s not enough to be invisible until someone needs something, but when you do? It’s tumbleweed and BLANK FUCKING stares. Imagine having to stay in bed because your uterus is doing an impression of Moses parting the Red Sea or that blood flood scene from The Shining? Not a moment’s peace or empathy. Just, “what’s for dinner?”

How about a knuckle sandwich you ungrateful fucks? Course that never happens but it’s nice to dream…

Crone Over and Out