Hot Flash Crazy Eyes

I don’t know the way to San Jose and I can’t take you to Funky Town. Heck, unlike Rod Stewart and Gladys Knight, I can’t even find the Downtown Train or the Midnight Train to Georgia without Google Maps, but sadly, I am intimately familiar with how to get to Crazy Town courtesy of something called

H-O-T F-L-A-S-H-E-S.

In my younger years, I was mistakenly under the impression hot flashes would be a brief, but fun mini excursion to my own personal tropical paradise where a handsome guy named Sven would serve me umbrella drinks as I lounged by the pool.

Holy Cow, People! Was I ever wrong!!!!?

Wikipedia states and I quote, “Hot flashes (also known as hot flushes) are a form of flushing due to reduced levels of estradiol. They are typically experienced as a feeling of intense heat with sweating and rapid heartbeat, and may typically last from two to thirty minutes for each occurrence.”

Wikipedia’s explanation is woefully lacking. Here is my definition. “Hot flashes are a form of satanic punishment meant to encourage women to pray and beg for favors from the Almighty.”

My daily prayer: Dear God, Please, please, please, keep my hot flashes to a minimum of five, because I know you’re not a big fan of me saying swear words and such … and I’m working really hard on that … I promise. But these hot flashes are making it freakin’ impossible, Lord!

It goes without saying that woman with severe hot flashes should not own guns. Here is a list of things I would shoot during a hot flash.

• The toilet which keeps stopping up in the bathroom
• The treadmill which whispers “Thunder Thighs” whenever I pass it
• The toaster oven which burns everything that goes into it
• Jodi Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper for the worst ending ever
• The telephone because it keeps emitting that annoying ringing sound

Hot flashes can also make your marriage a tricky business.

Let’s say the hubster does something really stupid …

like this …

during one of your hot flashes.

Instead of handing him a broom and demanding he clean up his mess … in the back of my mind where Crazy Town is located, I’m contemplating going all Hannibal Lector on his nose. (I know …  I know. Crazy Town is not a nice place. Stop judging me!)

“Geez, you’re sour today,” he says, while I give him the evil eye for his heinous transgression.

“Are you kidding me? Stick your head, neck and shoulders into a 450-degree oven and not be able to remove them for ten minutes, Buster!” I reply, wanting to rip his eyebrows off his face. “You’re bound to be a little testy too.”

In my later years, I plan on being the old lady popping estrogen like tic tacs in the corner. Just leave me alone and walk on by when you see the crazy eyes and you’ll be all right. Maybe. *evil cackle*

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