IDP talks PMS

High-tech Redneck Hubby here (formerly known as the Imaginary Dead President or IDP, a name I neither sanctioned, nor appreciated, but I digress.) Not that I'm excited about being named after a George Jones song, but when it's that or Mr. Lincoln, I err on the side of The Possum.

Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about names. I came here with a warning. But before I get to that, I'd better explain. And since the wife is not exactly herself tonight, you're stuck with me.

7:35 pm - I entered the residence after a long day at the office to find an eerie calm. Not even the dogs greeted me at the door. The scent of home cooking hit me the minute my feet cleared the threshold, but there was no sign of my wife. Never a good thing.

7:40 pm -  I turned off the fire on the skillet of Sloppy Joe bubbling away on the unattended stove, sauce splattering every nearby surface. Then I followed a trail of empty candy wrappers to the living room where I discovered my wife, the writer, curled into the fetal position on the sofa, hair sticking up in all directions and mumbling something about  chocolate. I approached slowly, using the list of soothing words she'd put on the refrigerator for just such an occasion, but stopped cold as her eyes met with mine.

7:50 - Watched with growing trepidation as my wife bounced restlessly in a chair, whispering curses at her temporary laptop, eying me ever few minutes as if she could burn a hole in my very soul with a single look. Then as if I hadn't heard her voice in ages, she spoke. "We need to go to Walmart." Perfect. The one place in a fifty mile radius where a homicidal female might not stand out in a crowd.

8:30 pm - After a quiet thirty minute drive where I'd deluded myself into thinking things might work out ok, we arrived at our destination and I realized how very wrong I was. The minute we walked through the sliding doors, my wife began her assault on a pair of shopping carts that had gotten tangled up together. The pure evil oozing from her eyes was enough to turn my blood cold, but like a fox in a trap, I couldn't leave. Using my list of soothing words, yet again, I wrested the carts from her white-knuckled grasp and untangled them, carefully pushing a free cart in front of her like a peace offering.

The people of Walmart were clueless as to how close they were to meeting their end as my wife drove the cart through the aisles, growling under her breath about things like sharpies and chalk outlines. I pretended she was talking about markers and chalk boards, but let's face it...that was as far from the truth as I could get.

9:00 pm - Our cart was filled with more junk than Fred Sanford's backyard. Chips, candy, cheese dip, and three huge boxes of sugary breakfast cereal. I wanted to tell her how bad those things were for her health, but feared for my own if I opened my mouth. I simply kept my thoughts to myself and reveled in the fact that I managed to toss a few screen wipes for my laptop and a new 16GB USB flash drive into the cart without her noticing. Her vocabulary had been reduced to mere grunts and growls as she pointed to each thing I should put in the cart, and like the dutiful husband, I complied with each one.

9:16 pm - We made it out of Walmart alive. More importantly, we made it out without anyone else dying. There were a few close calls (namely the woman who refused to move her cart out of the aisle as we attempted to go down it, and the woman who engaged us in a random conversation about her cat while we walked down the pet aisle looking for a new collar for one of our dogs.)  Once we were safely in the car, I gave her a candy bar and pulled my fingers away before I lost one. The night was still young, and the evil was still coursing through her like the mighty Mississippi.

9:30 pm - I made one last stop before heading into the semi-dry county we live in. The liquor store. I know there are drugs out there specifically designed to combat the effects of PMS, but since I had no clue what those might be, and feared for my life if I fell asleep before she did, I went with my gut. After an encouraging smile from the wife, I picked up a bottle of berry flavored vodka, a liter of Sprite, and a sippy cup (what can I say, it's Georgia) and drove as fast as I dared to get home. 

10:59 pm - One drink. Scratch that. One half a drink later and the savage beast has officially been soothed. I'm not sure if it was the liquor or the bag of Hershey's kisses, but either way, I think I have successfully navigated another month and another Ultra-High Red Alert.  If nothing else, I hope I've managed to warn others who may not be aware of the tips and tricks of traveling down that slippery slope of life with a wife. Let's just hope I have fair warning next month too.

Until the next time...I'll be making myself one of those drinks before bed. 

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!                                        

the secret to life

Sometimes life sucks. Eat chocolate…be happy.

This should be on a bumper sticker. Or a tattoo. On my forehead. You know…in reverse so I could read it when I look in the mirror? It just never fails to surprise me how often I’m shocked and dismayed by the stupid little things.

It’s not like the world is going to end just because my dog’s flea medicine doesn’t work. Fleas are apparently as resistent to death as cockroaches and aging rock stars. And now I have to take extreme measures to run the circus out of town. Shit happens, right? And, yeah…I have giant moths and daddy longlegs spiders (or non-spiders as they don’t spin webs…semantics if you ask me) creeping around me after dark.  I just need to sleep in a bubble of bug netting or something to keep them from touching me in the night, right? And so what if my husband watched a documentary on holistic medicine after a few beers last night and decided to analyze me while I was attempting to sleep. And for the record, I don’t care if my chakra is balanced or not. As long as you’re not drawing a chakra line around my dead body, I think I’ll be fine. Do not even think about telling me I need to give up chocolate for tofu or something equally insane.

Not that he said any of those things. He said my skin was too dry…but, hey, I’m not taking any chances.

When I find myself feeling down because life isn’t fair, I have to remind myself that life isn’t supposed to be fair. It’s not a board game. It doesn’t play by the rules. You don’t get any guarantees or warrantees, and there are no returns or exchanges. This is it. So, you’d better grab all the chocolate you can carry and save it for a freaking rainy day, because it rains a lot.

But on the up side…without the rain, there are no rainbows.

I know…I’m spewing some serious crazy talk. But hey, I’m allowed. I think I’m suffering from PMS. I need a damn PMS sign…like the Bat signal. Something I can flash into the sky to warn everyone in a several mile radius to either suck it up and do my bidding, or just stay the hell away for 5 to 7 days. I have no patience for your crap.

Haha. That would be awesome, wouldn’t it?

Honestly, I love PMS. It’s the rest of the world that seems to have a problem with it.

Until the next time…I’ll be holed up in my room with chocolate and weapons.

please don't piss off the chef

The last few months have brought many changes in my life. I’ve had to sacrifice modern conveniences (and Barnes and Noble) for the solitude of the country. I must admit, I miss having a metroplex movie theatre close by. I miss human interaction (my main reason for hanging out at the bookstore cafes). And I pine for my hairdresser every time I look in the mirror. But I try to remind myself of all the wonderful things I got in the bargain. I have chickens, and ducks, and a mountain view all for me. And for a few weeks, I had the complete quiet of an existence without my children living at home.

Yeah, about that…

The girls moved back with their significant others, and I have to say…I kinda like this whole family thing. I have boys to order around…errr ummm…sweet talk into doing errands for me. Mike loves having boys to cut down trees and mow the grass. The unpacking is finally complete, now that I have burly guys to lift heavy things and put them away for me. And other than the occasional (ok, frequent) couples arguments, it’s been smooth sailing around here.

Did I happen to mention my daughter’s boyfriend is a chef?

Oh yeah…a chef. And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my little bet with the hubby. The one where I won a life free of ever cooking again? Yeah, as soon as we moved here, that little agreement flew right out the window like a chicken being chased by my dog. But when the daughter moved in with the chef, well, suddenly I didn’t have to cook anymore…again. And this time I’m not forced to eat my husband’s crazy concoctions (he hates when we call them that, but I doubt science experiments would go over any better). This time, I’m getting the gourmet treatment almost any time I want it.

Now I’m praying my daughter doesn’t muck it up. I mean, she can’t break up with my chef! What would I do? What the hell would I eat? I’d be kissing my chicken parmesan goodbye. And my homemade, hand tossed fancy goat cheese pizzas. And the fettuccini alfredo. (Insert groans and salivating here). The list just goes on and on.

I’ve decided if they break up, she’s got to find someplace else to live. I mean, yeah, I love her…she’s my baby. But the guy is a fantastic cook! AND he does the dishes. Do you hear me? He does the fucking dishes too! Maybe I should just pressure them into getting married. I get to keep him in the pre-nup. That’s fair, right?

Yeah, I hope she doesn’t read this. At least not until she’s over the PMS.

Until the next time…I’ll be stuffing my face with garlic mashed potatoes and fresh sweet corn succotash.

ok, who drank my wine?

I’m blogging about wine again. How many times does this make in such a short time? I don’t even know…I’ve lost track. But despite how it may seem on the surface…I swear I’m not a wino.

Really! I rarely drink wine, or even wine coolers, and I steer clear of anything stronger at all costs. I don’t take aspirin unless I really need it. Hell, I don’t even finish my prescriptions as directed! I’m a lightweight at best, and a control freak at my core, so consuming anything that takes the control out of my hands and puts it somewhere in the unseen mist is truly rare.

Enter the great game changer…PMS.

Someone up there is laughing at me, I know it. Laughing a sadistic little laugh and pointing. Pointing at my puffy eyes, splotchy skin, and bloated gut. Well, laugh on, you cosmic sadist. Go ahead, laugh on. I refuse to be broken by you, or anyone else. Do you hear that? I. Refuse. To. Be. Broken.

Oh screw it. I’m broken. All I do is cry.

Cry. Cry. Cry.

I cry when the sun goes behind a cloud. I cry when I step into the pant leg of my pajama pants, falling into the kitchen sink, splashing water onto my freshly washed Eddie Bauer sweatshirt, forcing me to change my clothes. Then I cry when I discover someone put the bag of chocolate chips away with only three freaking chips left in the bag. And let me just say…who does this? Someone with a death wish, perhaps? Someone foolish enough to tempt fate in the middle of the month? Someone with a broken cell phone and therefore can’t check the dates on the calendar? Oh, I suspect I know who you are…and you’re the same evil soul who drank the last of my fucking wine too, aren’t you?

Wackiki WabbitAnd people, if you don’t already know this (and you really should) please don’t eat the last of the chocolate AND the last of the wine right in the middle of PMS week. It’s just not fair…or smart…or safe for that matter. I’m already unstable…already eyeing you like a hamburger in the Bugs Bunny cartoon with the castaways stranded on the desert island…so don’t tempt fate here. Play it safe. Bring me chocolate and back away slowly. Offer me wine and hope I slip off to sleep quickly.

Or sleep on the couch and keep one eye open.

I’ll be the one wandering the house aimlessly after dark, with a menacing groan, as I bump into walls on a futile quest for chocolate that may have been left in packing boxes. Something I may have missed from Halloween…or Christmas…maybe Easter.

If you notice a trail of chocolate powder leading through the house, it was probably me as I fed from the baking cocoa when I ran out of other options, because YOU couldn’t leave well enough (and my chocolate) alone.

Zombie invasions? Pfft…I laugh at zombie invasions. You’d better start reading up on how to survive an attack by a PMSing woman!

And you know who you are!

I'm officially an activist

After last night’s response to my tampon dilemma, I’ve decided to become an advocate…no, an activist…for women. We need affordable feminine products. And we’re going to bite the heads off Barbies until we get them!

Ok…so maybe not the head biting, but the rest is true.

After reading all the comments last night, I discovered people were blaming everything from OPEC and global warming, to the Republicans and the drought for the rising cost of cotton. I also discovered there are crazy people out there who think feminine hygiene products are luxury items. Luxury? Really? So, if they’re a luxury, that suggests we can just choose not to use them.

Wouldn’t that be interesting?

Imagine if women everywhere just decided to boycott all feminine products. I don’t think I can write about how horrible…how frightening…that idea truly is. And I don’t think the men out there would survive a post apocalyptic society where women just gave up.

Talk about your zombie invasions!

Ok…enough about that. I got the heebee jeebees just thinking about it.

So, if not a boycott, then what do we do?

Sounds like we’re back to biting the heads off Barbie dolls. A scary band of PMSing women biting the heads from dolls in drug store parking lots? I don’t know…I sort of think I’ll come to my senses in a day or two…when the hormones wear off. I might be a little more rational by then.

I sure hope the world survives that long.

Until the next time…I’ll be moving (wish me luck!)

seriously...eight dollars a box?

Ok, I’m going there. I am. You can’t stop me…don’t even try. So, if you’re easily offended, you might want to brace yourself. I’m about to cross a line I’ve always tried to avoid.

Sure…I write about PMS. A lot. But I never go there. I never actually bring up the dreaded feminine hygiene products. Well…that was then.

This is now.

I had to go buy tampons today, and I have just one thing to say. Are you really going to charge a woman on the edge eight dollars a box for tampons? Do you hear me? A. Woman. On. The. Edge! I mean, seriously…eight dollars? Do you have any idea how many of these things we go through? And it’s not like they’re woven out of precious metals…or even cashmere. We’re talking cotton.

Cotton!

I’m seriously considering a boycott…I’m not even close to letting this drop…but it’ll have to wait until next week. I’m not exactly myself right now. I’m likely to bite someone’s head off or something. Although, that might put a fright into them. I should go into the store with a Barbie doll and bite the head off as a show of…something. I don’t know what.

With my luck I’d get arrested for terroristic threats, or some crazy thing.

Then again…I suppose I’d have a valid excuse.

Until the next time…I’ll be biting the heads off imaginary Barbies.

somebody pass the kleenex

What’s that old saying about spilled milk?

Sherwin Williams Shoji WhiteWell, it wasn’t exactly milk, but I found myself crying over white paint today…not even spilled paint. For those of you playing along at home, I finally found the right white (Sherwin Williams Shoji White ) and the minute I discovered it, the tears were flowing. Then the flood gates opened yet again while I considered the sentimental journey of packing my entire house as I pull up stakes to move to the mountains. Basically, I was crying over everything.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m finding myself suddenly nostalgic or if I’m simply suffering from PMS…again.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say, perhaps PMS is working in conjunction with a bit of nostalgia. After all, I just helped my son get situated in his very first place. It’s simultaneously exciting and heart-wrenching to watch my oldest child go out on his own. I’m sure he feels the same way. I’m sure he falls asleep each night almost wishing he was still home…close enough to ask me for a drink of water.

I’m sure of it.

And next I’ll be helping my daughter find her way. She’s younger…maybe less ready in some ways, but at the same time, I often think she’s more of an adventurer. More like her father than me. Fearless. Always willing to jump off the high-dive of life. So she’s been clawing at the nest for some time, ready to leap…to spread her wings and fly.

And I’ll miss her. I’ll miss them both horribly.

And this is precisely why I need another box of tissues. The extra soft, lotion infused kind. Feel free to send a box. I think I packed mine.

Until the next time…I’ll be drying off the packing boxes.

and now a word from our sponsor...PMS

I had the best day ever yesterday. Not as in, best day in my whole life…but the best day so far on my website. I had over 2800 page views on my blog. I know some people have that every day, but for me, that was more than 1000 views more than normal. It made me ask myself…does this have something to do with PMS?

I know it’s crazy, but for some reason the posts I write about PMS just get more attention. More laughs. More page hits.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m not complaining. I’ll gladly suffer for my art if that means you’ll come visit. But does this mean I should be doing more suffering? Or do you just like when I go all rogue…or Batgirl (note obscure vampire reference here) on society in general?

I’ve decided this subject is worthy of further investigation.

Are you fascinated with PMS, or a woman on the edge? And am I a woman on the edge or just a writer with a mission? Or…if we go deeper still…is a writer with PMS like a goose that lays golden eggs? It’s a scary thought. I mean, I love my readers, but I don’t know if I’m willing to have PMS all month long.

Well, whatever the reason…I’m really glad you’re checking in each day. I don’t exactly do this for the golden eggs. (Not that I’d turn them down, mind you) But, I do it for you…the readers.

So, I guess I’d better get back to it. I’ll dial back the PMS just a tad and see what happens. I know my husband will feel safer at night.

Until the next time…I’ll be wielding my mighty pen for the good of mankind! (Or not)

like beer for chocolate

What sort of man tells a woman…a woman in the throes of PMS…she can’t have chocolate?

A man on the edge…that’s who.

Surely this is grounds for divorce. Possibly justifiable homocide…or really nasty looks at the very least!

I get his motivation…as misguided as it may be. He has made a decision to live a healthy existance. No more gluten. No more dairy. No more red meat. Clearly he’s insane, but that’s completely beside the point. Or maybe it’s right on point, because only a crazy man would deny his wife something as life sustaining as chocolate.

I wasn’t asking for much. I wasn’t asking for bags of sugar and caffeine. I just wanted a bag of Oreos to go with the milk.

Ok, so maybe I wanted chocolate nutty bars too. Oh, and the chocolate muffins. Then there was the donuts. But honestly, I didn’t want anything…ok so I wanted the cookies too. But that was it. I mean, you can’t screw around with PMS. That shit is dangerous!

Yeah, he wasn’t buying it. Big fat no…and he was driving the cart.

So, fast forward a few aisles…past the cat food (for the cats he says I tricked him into getting…and so what if I did…it’s old news, get over it) past the bread and the milk and the cheese…oh and the frozen pizzas. Yep, fast forward right to the beer aisle…and watch for the brilliance of the PMS stricken woman.

Beer is not healthy.

Don’t argue with me…it’s not. It’s chock full of calories and grains and all sorts of not-good-for-you-ness. So when the newly focused on a health kick husband reaches into the beer case and pulls out a six pack of something unpronouncable and thoroughly beer-like, I didn’t hesitate. With swiftness worthy of someone hell bent on a mission, I sprung.

“If I can’t get chocolate…you can’t get beer.”

So yeah…I got a Hershey bar.

And the Oreos…chocolate milk…brownie mix…Cocoa Pebbles…and a bag of chocolate chips.

But more than that…I got to win the argument. And honestly, is there anything better than that?

Until the next time…I’ll be feeding my PMS!

the groundhog revisited

The groundhog came out of his hole and saw his shadow again this year without any fanfare. I completely missed it. I just wasn’t paying attention. And not because I don’t value the little groundhog. In fact, I have the utmost respect for him. He goes through a lot, even if it’s only for one day a year. Since I missed his very special once-a-year day, I figured I would do something I just hate to do, I’ll reprint my homage to him from two years ago…when I had more time to contemplate the meaning of shadows and extra weeks of winter. Maybe it will serve as a reminder of the really important things in life…

Or not.

I got up this morning the way I do every morning…grudgingly. I stumbled out of bed, staggered sleepily to the shower, and completed my morning rituals quietly, and without interruption. It was a dreary morning. Light rain dripped down from a gray blanket of clouds. The sun had already come up, but it was nowhere to be seen. Despite the dismal gloomy sky, I took for granted that sunrise had come at the same time it did most every morning, I was rarely awake to see it. To me this was just another day in a long week of work. I was completely unaware that it was also Groundhog’s Day. I hadn’t saved that day on my smart phone, and if it isn’t on my smart phone…well, it must not be that important. When I finally realized what day it was—several hours later—I actually felt a little bad that I missed it, the whole extravaganza that surrounds the yearly appearance of the groundhog. And not just for the sake of the groundhog, but for sentimental reasons. Twenty years ago, this was the day my son was due to be born. (Thankfully, he was four days late because I can’t imagine what would have happened if HE had seen his shadow coming out…I don’t think I could have survived six more weeks of pregnancy.)

Then I started thinking about the groundhog again. Do we really care that much whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow? Does it still have the same relevance in our lives that it used to have? Maybe. But I would hazard a guess that the only relevance is psychological. Then again, I might take the whole ordeal more seriously if the news media didn’t trudge out to the animal’s den before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, lights and cameras in hand, to drag the poor thing out of its bed kicking and screaming. Even Paris Hilton gets more respect.

So I tried to think of myself like the groundhog. I imagined myself back in bed still asleep, as I usually am at quarter to seven in the morning, sweet dreams swirling around in my brain. Thirty or so minutes to go before the first wave of alarm clocks would go off and the only sound was the soft buzz of dogs snoring. Blissfully unaware…like our friend the groundhog. What would I do if someone came crashing into my bedroom so early, TV cameras at the ready? Provided they could plot a course through the dangerous territory known as my bedroom, a space riddled with doggy beds, loose blankets and half a dozen tennis balls, not to mention all three dogs and one ninja cat. (I have all too often gone down in that obstacle course myself.)

Still, the press is skilled at navigating treacherous terrain on a daily basis, so I will assume they survived the journey to find me, face buried in my pillow, sound asleep…and wham! Suddenly, I’m up! Eyes wild…teeth bared…hair all in a tangle. I think I might just curse them all to six more weeks of winter!

And why wouldn’t I?

Surely they deserve at least that! But because I’m so over winter, and ready to usher spring back in, I think I’d just doom them to six more weeks of whining instead. That might just be the PMS talking. I have been sadly afflicted these past few days. I don’t even know if groundhogs get PMS, but it would explain things a little bit better to know they did. What other excuse is there for cursing someone to six whole weeks of winter just for seeing one’s shadow? PMS does that to people. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone dreads those terrifying days during each month when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are behaving like a raging bitch on a stick, and you just don’t give a damn. Relationships have been all but ruined because of PMS. People have been maimed and may have even died. It’s a serious matter that deserves serious attention.

I think it’s about time we created some sort of early detection system to send out a warning when PMS is evident. Similar to the one in place for tornados. It would be beneficial, especially for men. Like a public service announcement. “The emergency broadcast system’s PMS detection center has identified three women in your vicinity who are experiencing severe symptoms of PMS. This is not a test. You may want to take cover in a basement or other shelter surrounded by multiple sports channels and beer until the storm blows over.”

I’d be all for that. In fact, it might work in our favor. There is nothing that will clear a room faster than the three words, “I have PMS.” It’s almost like an exclusive club. And women who spend a lot of time together end up suffering around the same time every month. Misery loves company…and shopping…because PMS is almost completely alleviated by shopping, bitching and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order. So drop off your credit card on the way to your man shelter.

Happy Hour anyone?

Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol!

three seats for the apocalypse

What could be worse than suffering from PMS?  Suffering from someone else’s PMS, that’s what.   PMS is like a rabid puppy.  It seeks to destroy everything it touches, leaving a war torn trail of shredded shoes and underwear in its wake, but it likes company.  In fact, it likes company so damn much, it recruits friends.  How do I know this?  Because women living or working in close proximity to one another always seem to cycle together.  We don’t understand it, we don’t really like it, but we have absolutely no way to control it. 

It sneaks up on us like the scary, badass ninja it is.

So imagine my horror, as I begin the tenuous climb down from the crumbling ledge of my own terrifying brand of PMS, and I find myself stepping onto a window washer’s unsteady platform, hanging precariously over the edge on a windy, rainy day with two teenage girls and their very own vats of simmering, frothing PMS.  I have nowhere to turn…nowhere to run.  I am trapped, and ready to chew off my own arm just to escape.

That’s when I get the text from my daughter, just moments after finally falling asleep last night.  “Mom, it’s an emergency…bring (insert feminine hygiene product here).”

There is nothing like discovering at five o’clock in the morning that you have exactly three items left in the box and three women in desperate need.  Sure, enough to go around, but these things must be immediately replenished!  This is no joke!

So I’m standing in the line at the grocery store this morning (after getting way too few hours of sleep…WAY TOO FEW!) and on the conveyor belt…gliding ever closer to the pubescent boy ringing up my items…I have a bag of tortilla chips, one can of chili, two boxes of ice cream sandwiches, a bag of shredded cheese, three boxes of tampons, four boxes of pads, and one milky way candy bar.  The kid looks at me funny.  You know that look?  The one teenage boys seem to sport all the time…like they can sniff out sex in a dirty trash can.  He scans my stuff, he glances at me, then he cracks this little grin.  Like he knows something about me from my groceries.  So I shrug, knock over the tower of feminine hygiene products with a flick of my wrist and I say it… “I’d like three seats for the apocalypse please.” 

Yeah, he doesn’t laugh.  He clearly doesn’t have sisters, or a girlfriend.  And quite possibly his mother has done him a great disservice by not teaching him about the dangers of a PMSing female.  He didn’t get it.  Oh, but he will.  He will get it one day very soon.  And when he does, he’s going to suddenly burst out laughing, and his friends will all ask him, “what’s so funny, Jimmy?”  And he’s going to look at them and say, “Three seats for the apocalypse…I totally get it.”

Until the next time…I’ll be hiding in my room until the scary part is over!

lady, you need a whine cooler

No I didn’t spell that wrong, no matter what my spell checker says.  It doesn’t always understand context, and in this case, the context is dead on the money.  It has been one of those days.  The kind of day that makes a woman desperate for a whine cooler. 

Have you ever noticed how PMS just creeps up on you like a ninja? A freaking black suit wearing, sharp sword wielding ninja?  One minute you’re fine, going about your business…not bothering anyone…when a particular song comes on the radio, and the next thing you know you can’t see to drive through the downpour of tears.  So you pull over on the side of the road and use the floor mats to wipe your eyes and blow your nose. Five minutes later, you’re driving like a bat out of hell, following some burly man in a camouflaged pick-up truck with a gun rack in the back window because he cut you off, and you’re bound and determined to show him exactly where he can shove that elephant rifle…

Yeah…not a good day, right?

Once you’ve finished making the big scary man cry (because PMS makes you more terrifying than Freddy Krueger on steroids) you drive home to your nearest and dearest and proceed to plot their demise in the most horrible, painful way…a scenario you have memorized from last month, and the month before that…plans you don’t actually intend on carrying out, but laugh maniacally as you run them through your head nonetheless. God forbid someone should find your secret stash of chocolate and ice cream sandwiches…the consequences for eating those would be ghastly.

Before long, you feel like a social pariah, ready to snap at a single cross word, fully prepared to stab the next person who looks at you funny with a pencil, or a sharpened carrot stick.  Instead, you take a few deep breaths and dig through the fridge for that frosty cold wine cooler to chill out your perpetual PMS whine.

So this is where I am on a fine Sunday evening, living in a place that doesn’t allow alcohol sales on a Sunday…the same day the pharmacy closes early, so people can’t refill their valium prescriptions (not that I have one of those, but that isn’t important right now) I also don’t have a single wine cooler in the house when I’m certain one would come in very handy.  Luckily, my husband has a stash of dark chocolate hidden in the safe for just this sort of occasion. 

Oh, I’m sure I’ll survive…I always do.  Although, I can’t guarantee the same for the rest of you.

Until the next time…I’ll be whining.