Let’s see how life has been at the Bahm Shelter lately:

My OB/GYN confirmed with a blood test that I’m smack dab in the middle of menopause. Now I didn’t particularly want to have any more children, and I don’t particularly want to be 20 again (even though babies smell delicious and I miss my abs), but this was not welcome confirmation. I am losing possibilities.

For the next year or two while a new building is going up, my work group moved to a new location in a … what would you call it tactfully? … low-income urban area with an intimate familiarity with sirens and blue lights. I’m leaving my nice jewelry at home these days because I don’t want to be mugged in the parking lot.

I blew three days on my diet, starting with not reading the menu carefully at a friend’s birthday celebration and eating the food anyway (oh GOD the Fuji rolls were good at the sushi house — best damned fried tidbits stuffed with cream cheese I’ve ever eaten). In the only good news of the day, I still managed to lose 4.8 pounds this week somehow. Guess all the guilt I suffered the rest of the week made up for a few excesses.

And the worst of all, I really can’t talk about in detail yet because I have an icepick in my heart and a 1,000-pound weight on my chest. My 18-year-old moved out to live with her 21-year-old lover and (I hope) attend college over there in another state. She called as she was leaving, while I was at work today. She is tired of being treated like a child and wants to pursue her dreams. I was flabbergasted, but I managed to tell her I was terribly sad she didn’t think she could talk to me openly, and I told her I loved her and hope she stays safe and happy. I said I believe she’s making a mistake by walking away from $35,000 in college scholarships (one was recently increased). But I also said it was her mistake to make.

I really don’t know what to do with the rest of the night, to be honest. Or this week. Or this year.

Body-modding is a real style, but those giant earlobe holes make me queasy. I look you in the eyes and say thanks at the checkout register, even though I want to poke my pinky through one grommet (I don’t know why — to gross you out too?).

Beer made “livestock love” sound like a good idea. You were in the barn, jeans around your ankles, standing on the hay behind a disinterested cow. She unloaded enough crap to spray your legs and fill your pants. Your brother caught you sneaking home in your undies.