So, I’ve been busy lately with the college kids home and their assorted needs and stitches that came back to New Jersey with them.

Yes, stitches. Don’t ask.

I just feel out of sorts now with folks home during the day and just can’t focus. And coming up with things to blog about has been at the bottom of my to-do list. I’m back to restocking quickly dwindling larders and moving laundry along. I don’t know how I ever held down a full-time job around here.

Anyway, I thought of something funny I had wanted to write about last week but then when the time came to produce, I could not for the life of me remember what that was.

And then I was in Target this weekend (this is also where I’ve been spending too much time and money lately), standing in the bathroom accessories aisle trying to pick just the right basket to corral all the girls’ lotions and potions on the counter in their bathroom, when I totally remembered.

At first, I thought maybe it was just a little warmer in that part of the store and then I realized that the heat was coming from inside me. Hot fucking flash. I looked around at my fellow shoppers — the boyfriend and girlfriend, maybe, about three feet away examining shower curtains — and started to nonchalantly take off as much clothing as possible without seeming like a weirdo.

And it totally reminded me of what I wanted to write about. I had just happened to catch one of my all-time favorite movies, circa 1982, on cable the night before and made this startling revelation; “Holy shit,” I thought, “going through menopause in like becoming a werewolf, with, like, a little less hair.”

Ladies of a certain age, please tell me this hasn’t happened to you at one point in your not-so-distant life:

Tell me you haven’t found yourself sitting there quietly reading a book, or perhaps shopping for containers at Target, minding your own business when out of the blue, you start screaming that you’re burning up and then sweating like you just ran a marathon through the Mojave Desert and need to take off all your clothes. Pronto.

Even my kids can recognize those moments when they see them. I was making breakfast not long ago and felt a flash coming on and quickly pulled off my sweatshirt and started to fan myself with a Reeses Puff cereal box.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” asked my 11-year-old, quietly moving to the other side of the kitchen island. “Hot flash?”

He is going to make a great husband some day.

The only comfort I get in all this sweating is that it’s leading to something better. I’m looking forward to life on the other side of swinging hormones and managing my monthly visit from Aunt Blood. She is rarely a welcome visitor.

I am going to cling to something I read in The New York Times Style Section this weekend that Sandra Tsing Loh, who wrote the new book, “The Madwoman in the Volvo: My Year of Raging Hormones,” says about menopause. 

She says that women finally stabilize hormonally after the insanity of our baby-making years.

“It’s like you lived on earth, and then you went to the moon, and lived there for a while,” Loh says in the Times article. “Now you’re back where you started” — the hormone levels of a preadolescent — “and it’s, like, ‘Welcome home.’ ”

It sounds like the silver bullet to crazy. With a lot less hair.