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Cycles of the moon and the girls

(This is an old column. I was much younger. There were four Girls in the house. Three were teenagers. I was married to the fourth. Those were interesting times.)

Much ado has been made throughout time about the monthly cycles of the moon, and about the monthly cycles of women. Ado. Now, there's a word.

Forget the moon. I don't live with the moon. Instead, my ado has to do with the monthly cycles of women. There's a lot of ado there, piles and piles. It's above average ado in most aspects, size-wise.

Ado about women has little to do with science, especially the science that I, Alan Linda, can bring into crisp, clear focus. That's my job. Scientific observation.

I can take or leave the moon, because I don't live with four moons. Instead, I live with Four Girls, all of whom have reached that particular biological age wherein they manifest certain ... ahem ... similarities of physical and mental behavior with one another, and with the moon. Ahem, ahem, ahem.

To be sure, a lot of this PMS behavior that is attributable to monthly hormone surges in the human female has actually, it seems to me, to have been there since birth, waiting for an excuse -- any excuse -- to have the floodgates opened, and the torrents loosed.

The torrents are loose around here a lot, and that's a scientific fact. Young Girls practice as much as possible when they're little, so they'll be ready when their hormones are. Open up those gates. Stand back.

When the monthly flood of ado becomes so torrential around here that it threatens to drown me, I lower my eyes. (Rule 1: Hope they don't notice you.) And repeat to myself these words: "They love me, in their own Girl Tribal Way; I am their Earth, their reason for being, the center of their orbital path. They are my four moons. They are here, captured in their heavenly orbits by my irresistible gravitational force." (I learned all this from another Guy named Copernicus. He evidently lived with Girls also.)

Let's be clear here (which would be a first), we're talking in metaphorical similes here. I don't have much gravitational mass ... although perhaps there is a certain magnetic something ...

Back to the moons. When they're all "orbiting" together, I like that the best. It's fun being an Earth for them then. They (The Girls, in case you're confused) hug and kiss and sing and giggle and have lots of fun. Sometimes, they even shine on me, sort of. But just as the earth's moon affects the earth's tides, the Girl-Moons affect mine, and when their monthly orbits deteriorate and reach glandular disintegration, one can do nothing right. All you can do is avoid eye contact. Like when they all came home the other evening from Sha-Ping (A weird Tribal Custom) in town together:

"All right! Who tracked in all this mud? And what in (Tribal Word, can't repeat it here) is that piece of junk stinking up the kitchen sink!"

I don't know about the mud, Darling Tribal Chief Girl, you know I'd never do that, but that's my tractor carburetor there in the sink, soaking in NAPA's world-famous carb cleaner. It had kind of a miss around 1,200 rpms, so I ...

"Dad! Eeeeuuuwww! What are you doing to mom's sink?"

Well, like I said, that low-speed idle jet was kind of plugged so ...

"Whoa! That's a major bogus smell you got going there, dad. Chad's supposed to pick me up in an hour. Now, thanks to you, I'll smell like a racetrack!"

Maybe your boyfriend needs a lesson in carburetor overhaul. You know, I could help him.

"Have you lost your mind? In the kitchen sink?"

I don't think ...

"Who took my Oreo cookies that I've been saving for when I'm desperate? I need them! I crave them! Chocolate! Now! Who did it? I'll rip out their heart, I'll ..."

"Oooooooh no! We're out of Ibuprofen again. That's the third bottle this month. Oooohhh no!"

Listen, Girls, have you forgotten that I'm your central orbital reason for being? Your earth, your ...

"Give it a rest, Dad. Some of us have got some major problems going here. We've all got stomach cramps beyond reality. And headaches you wouldn't believe. Nausea. You."

Must be the flu that's going around.

"Get real, Dad."

"Yeah, Dad."

"Whatever, Dad!"

"You'll have to fix supper again tonight, dear. Check the laundry pile, while you're at it. We're all indisposed."

Yes, Moon. I mean, dear.