The Ballad of Marjorie Menopause

Those were the final prophetic words left by the one that got away. The one with glorious treats. The one named Marjorie Menopause.

We met at a church bake sale on the outskirts of Turdland. She was selling her famous rice crispy treats and I was just high enough to need one.

“One…uh…no, two rice crispy things please,” I said on the brink of uncontrollable laughter.

“Sure thang, sweetie,” Marjorie spoke with a southern twang and the maternal gentleness of a thousand Mother Gooses.

As I slowly fumbled with the wad of cash I removed from my sock – I noticed a personal stash of treats near Marjorie’s purse that appeared to be a holy trifecta of peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow.

“What those?” I muttered like a stoned Neanderthal.

“Oh, nevermind those, sugah. They’re not for sale,” Marjorie backpedaled as she covered the treats with a homemade quilt.

Undaunted and overcome with the munchies, I upturned Marjorie’s table and seized the forbidden treats like Gollum grasping the One Ring. During the confectionary chaos that ensued, I found my hand resting comfortably upon Marjorie’s middle-aged thigh.

“Woah! Sorry, lady!” I exclaimed and removed my hand, leaving behind chocolate fingerprints like points of interest along the varicose vein roadmap of her leg.

“Oh, that’s quite alright…” she replied, peeling off her purple cardigan – revealing a mound of saggy breasts that looked like two laundry bags trapped in a blanket.

A bead of sweat formed across her brow. She was clearly having hot flashes while my head spun on a carousel of marijuana, processed sugar and cougar lust.

That’s how it started.

We spent our first afternoon walking through Urethra Franklin Park. To be fair, we mostly sat on benches because Marjorie’s hip kept acting up. I spoke bluntly about my feelings for her, which may or may not have been altered by the blunt I smoked earlier that day.

“You got pretty hair,” I complimented her with the eloquence of a rock.

“Thanks, but most of it ends up in the tub drain these days…” she replied sullenly.

“Eh, who cares? Outer space is way bigger than our little problems, y’know?” I sloppily attempted to reassure her as my sweaty fingers crept up to hers.

We locked hands and she smiled – her dead tooth barely visible. Suddenly, a teardrop emerged from the crow’s feet of her good eye and the mood changed completely.

“I’m sorry – I can’t do this, honey!” Marjorie cried as she hobbled into her turquoise Geo Prism and drove away.

Weeks went by with neither hide nor gray hair of Marjorie Menopause. Until I heard my phone ring above the bubbling of my dragon-shaped bong and it was playing “Hot For Teacher” by Van Halen. Although never technically my teacher, it was the cougariest ringtone my AT&T plan offered.

Marjorie invited me over to her apartment for pot roast so I finished roasting some pot and hopped on my Huffy.

The apartment complex was on the Southside of Turdland in an area called Barfington Heights. It was a quaint place, decorated with wicker baskets of potpourri and mediocre flower paintings.

What struck me most was the amount of cats or “roommates” as Marjorie put it. I swear, some of the cats had their own cats and I think one was wearing a crown – I assume he was the Cat King. I can’t be sure, though – I was pretty high.

Cat Kingdom aside, we enjoyed a lovely dinner. Unfortunately, she used instant mashed potatoes and I’d never heard ketchup referred to as gravy before but a meal’s a meal when you’re unemployed, I guess.

As Marjorie loaded the dishwasher I decided to sneak into the bathroom and load my pipe. My dank nugget cherried and I found myself surrounded by an assortment of pills that would put CVS out of business. Cranberry extract, Iron supplements, One-A-Day Women’s and a heavy bottle of Vicotin that was admittedly lighter after I left.

There was one prescription, however, that I had to fill personally for Marjorie.

After lighting some fresh linen-scented Yankee Candles and lowering the blinds, we made love on her Craftmatic adjustable bed. “Making love” however, sounds a lot more romantic than what actually occurred – which was pretty gross when I finally sobered up, three years later.

Immediately following our awkward consummation, Marjorie went into hiding. I searched everywhere – flea markets, the dollar store and every antique place in the tri-county area. I missed Marjorie – partly because her treats were delicious and partly because all of my friends are married and I’m really bored.

Then, one fateful afternoon in July – a mobile mammogram truck drove by like the Marjorie Menopause bat signal. I rushed to check my mail and among the final notice from the electric company and the new issue of Maxim laid a letter from Ms. Menopause.

The letter detailed Marjorie’s struggles with our May/December relationship including a failed attempt at pregnancy and something about pubic lice. I couldn’t make out a lot of it because her handwriting is really small and arthritic but I assumed she really missed me.

Unfortunately for her – I’ve moved on. I’m dating this chick named Heather who is sort of fat or whatever but she likes getting stoned and never really wants to do anything – which is cool.

But every now and then I’ll buy a couple rice crispy treats and a tube of Ben Gay at the Turdland Corner Market and forget all about Heather, my parents and the guy who stole my Huffy. I kick back with a fat spliff and reminisce about the one that got away. The one with the glorious treats. The one named Marjorie Menopause.