OMG my OCD has PMS

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 a cherry cheesecake and a few bits of leftover chocolate. But a few hours 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, IDP!"

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!                                        

just a little nookie

I feel like a bad girl. Like I’m doing something illicit. Some sort of affair. You know…getting lots and lots of…errr…nookie?

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. Not that kind of nookie. I’m talking about my NOOK. You know…e-reading device? Downloading books? Reading? Yeah…I’m on a journey lately, and I haven’t come back just yet.

I talk about my OCD a lot, and honestly, I do sort of think of it fondly. It drives my husband crazy sometimes. Like when I listen to the same song over and over again for days on end. Or when I watch the same movie over and over again for days on end. Or read the same book…yeah, you get the idea, right? Well, it’s comforting to me. And once I burn the images or sounds into my brain and get over the obsession, I’m on to the next thing.

So, lately I’ve been on a reading kick. And admittedly, the stories I’m reading aren’t exactly the classics. They aren’t edited. They aren’t even good (although some are). But they are most definitely addicting. And so it starts. The newest O in my little world of OCD.

Fan fiction.

Ok, so yes…I’m embarrassed to admit what I’m reading, and so I won’t, not exactly. So keep it to yourself, ok? But only because I actually want to maintain some level of respectibility in the world. I will say it started with that new firestorm, best seller, crazy erotic fiction novel (and subsequent sequels), Fifty Shades of Grey. When I became completely obsessed after reading the series, and discovered it started out as fan fiction, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

And so it began.

I’ve been on a week long bender and I’ve barely come up for air. My husband is beginning to worry about me. And my eyes refuse to focus when I pull them away from the text on the screen. I may need an intervention here. But hold off until I get through the last several stories I downloaded. I need to read those first.

I’ll get back to you.

But for now, I have a date with my Nook, and probably an eye doctor.

Until the next time…I’ll be reading!

it's not supposed to rain in the basement

Just to be perfectly clear…it is not supposed to rain in the basement.

I had to call my husband at work yesterday. I didn’t want to call my husband, and sometimes I do want to, but this time I had to call him. He didn’t answer his phone, it rolled straight to voice mail, so, of course, I did what every resourceful wife does…I sent him a 911 text message. One simple word, “Emergency!” and before I knew it, the phone was ringing in my hand.

“What?” His voice was stained with irritation.  You would think I cry wolf all the time or something. Which, I don’t, of course. That would be stupid, and I’m anything but stupid. Ok, sometimes I over react but that’s not the same thing as being stupid. This time I was not over reacting.

“Um…is it supposed to be raining in the basement?” I asked, ever so innocently.

Ok, maybe it was sarcastically, but either way, my point was made.

Depths of Hell coming up the tubBefore I even got to the whole, depths of Hell coming up the tub drain part of the story, my husband was on his way home from work in the middle of the day, and I was still left with a mysteriously filled bathtub (rusty, dirty water loudly gurgling up uninvited from the drain) and it was still raining in the basement.

The worst part of it was the fact that I had to go into the basement (alone) to investigate. This is how I discovered it was raining down there. And it was apparently raining the same dirty, orange colored water that was coming up the drain in the tub.

The first thing I asked myself was, “Wasn’t this a major plot point in a horror movie? One I purposely avoided out of a deep-seated fear?” Yes, I believe it was.

My bathtub is haunted.

Pipes in the basement ceilingMy bathtub isn’t haunted. Or so says my husband. And the plumber. And the scary clog the plumber managed to dislodge from the ancient, 1920’s era cast iron pipes running through the bowels of my creepy basement.

I am beginning to wonder if it’s just too much to ask to be able to take a shower without the depths of Hell coming up to greet me. Is it any wonder I’m developing a bathroom phobia? Don’t these people understand how OCD works? Didn’t they see The Aviator?

Apparently not.

Well, I suppose I’ll take a shower tomorrow. After I thoroughly disinfect the entire bathroom, just to be safe. And it might not be a bad idea to do my disinfecting with a bottle of Holy water and a bit of dialogue from the Exorcist. “The power of Christ compels you.”

That and some bleach ought to do the trick!

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping with an umbrella!

I wonder if this is what happened to Howard Hughes

I think I have agoraphobia.  Not to be confused with angora-phobia, which is the fear of angora sweaters, which I also believe I have.  Angora makes me itch, so I avoid the sweaters like the plague. But I’m not talking about sweaters, am I?  No, I’m talking about agoraphobia…the fear of leaving the house. 

I have totally become Sigourney Weaver in the movie Copycat.  I lock myself inside to write while I drown my sorrows in a wine cooler (I’m a lightweight) and interact solely with the people on my computer.  Just add some Harry Connick, Jr. on my iTunes and the picture is complete. 

What happened to me?  I used to love to go out and wander around public places.  I did karaoke!  I had friends!  I wore make-up, shaved my legs, and had sexy hair!   I even stopped to talk to strangers (don’t tell my mother) but lately, I would rather stay in my pajamas with my hair pulled into a ponytail, and listen to television on low volume while I write.   I want to blame the wretched summer heat and my aversion to the sun, but could it be something more?  Am I turning into a recluse a la Howard Hughes?  What’s next…a house full of cats and an episode of Hoarders? 

I had better nip this problem in the bud.  I’m getting up tomorrow morning, shaving my legs, and going for a haircut and a pedicure.  I might even leave my laptop home while I do it.  Oh yeah…I’m ready to live dangerously.  I might even…I’m afraid to think it…I might even wear strappy sandals with a heel!  Watch out world, I’m dangerous in heels. 

But before I can do any of that, I have to finish this blog and get in a few pages of my current work in progress.  I mean, we recluses are actually very dedicated to our work.  After all…look at what Howard Hughes accomplished in his bizarre lifetime?  He made movies, romanced starlets, changed the future of aviation, and got Leonardo DiCaprio to play him in a movie!  I want a life like that…well, minus the crazy long toenails and peeing in milk bottles.

Yep, I’m definitely getting a pedicure tomorrow!

Until the next time…I’ll be sketching up plans for a new airplane…or not.