Why Rosemary Is Now Scarier Than Her Baby

Remember the movie Rosemary’s Baby? Well, I would like to pitch a new version of the movie that’s less about Rosemary’s evil baby and more about the evil, menopausal Rosemary.

I am sure my husband would be an investor if the movie could channel my cloven-footed energy in a different direction. Each time I think that menopause is slowing down and my mood is lifting, something happens and the blanket of normalcy is pulled off of my feet to reveal the terrifying hooves. The worst part is that I never know when it’s going to happen.

So far, the holidays, which usually stress me out just by existing, have been a delight.

My daughter even dared to take me shopping for four hours. Shopping has always been a trigger point for my wrath; I think it’s because my sister would drag me through a mall for eight hours looking for one top. Inevitably, in the eighth hour, she would buy the first one she tried on. My daughter knows the risks, but she took me out Thanksgiving weekend anyway. Normally, my hooves would have started showing before we even arrived at the mall.

But this time they didn’t. I even smiled at a few people and stayed with my daughter as she tried on approximately 28 different coats before deciding on one at the end of three hours that was at the opposite end of the mall from where we were parked.

Then my husband and I got in the car, and we drove home. As we arrived at the house, my husband reminded me that he would be out of town on Monday. I felt the hooves coming.

“What? You’re going to be out of town? Isn’t Monday the day the power generator guys are going to be working on the house? And the cleaner is coming?” I asked, my voice deepening about three octaves.

“Yes,” he responded tentatively, “You knew I was going to be out of town.”

“Maybe I KNEW,” I spit back at him, “But I didn’t realize that the generator guys would be there at the same time as the cleaner. If they cut off the power then we’re screwed. She can’t clean, and it will be another month before the house is cleaned again. I can’t believe this. This is unbelievable and SO typical.”

It was as if I were watching myself from a distance and wondering why I was getting so upset. Some part of me wanted to commiserate with my husband. “Hey honey, who’s the bitch? Let’s ditch her and go have some fun!” But I couldn’t say that because I was the one doing the bitching.

I know that many of you will share incredible solutions like herbs and exercises, and I am all for them. But I think this behavior requires something a little stronger. As Dr. Evil says in Austin Powers, “I need an old priest and a young priest.”

The priests will have to be available for house calls. Of course, by the time they get to my house, the moment will have passed. Like the other day when I took out the trash, I was thanking God for every beautiful thing in my life. “Thank you God,” I whispered, “Thank you for my family, and these trees and the birds.” I threw the bag in the trashcan and patted my dog on the head. I was filled with joy.

Then I noticed that a leaf was stuck to my shoe. I went inside to get a little light on the subject and could smell the problem. I had stepped in dog poop.

My shoe slowly started to turn into a hoof.

Dialing one young or old priest … Heck, bring ‘em both.