The following essay has been written by our featured blogger of the week, Grace Davis.

For those who have witnessed the live, frenetic energy that is Dr. Laura's Worst Nightmare, the concept that I would be severely felled (like bedridden felled) by the wildly fluctuating hormones of menopause is an odd notion, indeed. But, folks, it's happening: I am ex-haus-ted. For those who have hung out with me at latte fueling stations, patiently listening to my caffeine driven rants and raves, it is easier to imagine that my estrogen storm would prompt hollering at the wind, if not the kid, the hubs, and, of course, the Radical Religious Right. Well, I do that too. Ask Molly and her friends. Recently, I committed the dire and ultimate parental sin of yelling at not only Molly, but her entire girl posse. The exact tirade is a blur to me. All I remember is that I had to get out of bed at 11:00pm to drive them from A to B, then they wanted to go to Burger King, where I had to do the dreaded thing - use the drive-through. Who hates having six teenagers holler out their complicated fast food orders past their ear and out the driver's window? I do! I do! Hell, we all do! Thus, it was logical at that moment to screech, "WHY DIDN'T YOU GUYS EAT BEFORE THE MOVIES? WHY? WHY? WHY?"

I know, irrational and dangerous. Estrogen Terrorism. Also, I know what you’re thinking, "Dude. That was totally run on. One word for you - paragraphs."

Time to descend down the wooded path to my Menopausal Hut, which is not a house of banishment or detention but a middle aged woman's retreat. The Menopausal Hut is pleasant, with a sunlit, airy rooms and a full bathroom complete with a Japanese furo soaking tub. There's an efficient little kitchen with a nifty electric whistling kettle for tea and a glass jar full of Snickerdoodle cookies. Books are plentiful as are magazines, mostly the good cheesy ones like People and its tawdry cousin, Us.

There's a feather bed. Ahhhhh! Feather duvet. Oooooo! And ten feather pillows. Mmmm!

I tucked myself in with a People magazine (Jennifer Aniston on the cover), brewed up some chamomile tea then took a luxurious soak in the Furo bath. I recovered nicely and was able to pull myself together to take the kiddo out for a Mother Daughter brunch.

At the table, Moll was distant and apologized for it:

"I'm sorry I'm killing brunch, Mom."

"I know you're upset with me for yelling at you and your friends," said the Mom, taking a bite of Crow Pie.

"Yeah. You know, you can yell at me, but don't yell at my friends, please."

I yammered just a little bit, I swear, just a teeny tiny bit, about the drive-through window business, but then stopped myself to have another slice o' crow.

"Oh, I understand. And I apologize, honey. I really, really do. And I'll apologize to your friends. Your old Mom is tired these days. Menopause is kicking my butt. However, I should have known better."

I almost blurted out that I could make it up to the girls by driving them down to Disneyland and Universal Studios for a weekend, but the dessert tray showed up and I shut the fuck up.

So I'm back at the keyboard. I will answer my email. I will call my friends. I will do the 4:30 pm yoga practice today.
I will be a better mother.

And I will ask my hubs, very nicely and wearing my laciest camisole, if we could build a Menopausal Hut sometime very soon. Because what I described above was a total figment of my imagination. But you were right there in the furo bath with me, weren't you?

read more by Grace Davis at I Am Dr. Laura's Worst Nightmare, and visit Grace's Relief Blogs: Family to Family and Hurricane Katrina Direct Relief