You’ve heard the old adage…if a tree falls in the forest and the only one around to hear it is a woman with PMS, does she fly into a rage trying to convince her husband it really happened???
I am completely convinced husbands do not understand the power of PMS. Do they not realize they have to sleep at some point? And I don’t know a single woman without a sharpened razor at the ready! (For our legs, of course…but still!)
Men just don’t get the danger!
There, I’ve said it. It’s a wonder the human race has survived this long when you consider how often women get PMS and how often men mock our pain!
It’s ok…I’m fine now. I’ve had milk and cookies. A few bits of leftover chocolate. And a diet coke. But less than an hour ago? Things were pretty dicey around here.
I’ll admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with conflict. I’m a writer, so I know a good story is isn’t complete without conflict. Conflict drives the story. It’s what keeps us turning the pages.
But in reality? Conflict is the crazy taxi driver of life!
My ride started with a trip to the grocery store…well, it started a day or so before that, but the trip to the grocery store brought everything full circle. I made a passing comment to my husband about feeling an overwhelming urge to swear. Specifically, the eff bomb. Repeatedly. Until heads turned and whispers of “does she have Tourette’s” filled the air.
I didn’t do it. It was just an urge. An overwhelming urge, but I resisted.
My husband listened to me with a blank expression then counted on his fingers before proclaiming, “Ah ha! PMS.”
“PMS and OCD are never a good combination,” I reluctantly agreed. “It’s the dreaded acronym soup feared by men everywhere!” I added with a smile.
My husband tossed in his two cents with an acronym of his own. “CFB.”
I mouthed the letters back to him, scrunching up my face as I tried to decode them.
“Crazy fucking bitch,” he said with a sneer. And the winds began to turn.
What I should have said was, “Kind sir…why do you mock me so?” What I actually said was, “Fuck off!”
And with that primitive little phrase, I had opened Pandora’s box and let the eff bomb out. Trust me when I say, Pandora’s box is like a brand new tent. It’s all nice and neat until you take it out, but no matter how tightly you roll it up, you can never get that fucking tent back into the bag it came in.
The innocent little exchange became a full-blown war of epic proportions.
I think I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight. But don’t feel bad for me. I’ve booby trapped the bed with a little help from my “always willing to help with some drool” dog Indy. And I swapped out the new toilet seat for the cracked one I was saving for just this occasion. Hey, if a man sits on a broken toilet seat in the night and gets his butt pinched but no one is there to see it…will he still learn a lesson? Don’t ask me…I don’t give a fuck. I’m just going to smile when he yelps.
Until the next time…I’ll be hunting for chocolate!