Chapter 2: Magic Menstrual Mummies

I’d never heard of pheromones when I was ten. All I knew was that each month the large wicker basket in the bathroom on the middle floor of our chalet filled with softball sized, tightly wound wads of toilet paper. These tissue bundles were evidence that—in biblical terms—the time of Our Girls’ Monthly Uncleanness was once again upon them.

It’s happened again: Americans have freed up vast quantities of cerebral matter to make room for the dog and mule show we call an “election”, otherwise known as “The Religious Right and the Rest of the Country’s Time to Drop Their Drawers at each other and Let it Shine Let it Shine Let it Shine.”

Once again, the social issues. Once again, the parade of puppets. Once again, one seemingly interminable Groundhog Day of indigestion and dubious self-medication. By the time it’s all over, families need to replace dining room tables, former friends need to remove numbers from cell phones, and the whole nation needs to turn on the fan and light a match.