pre-menstrual syndrome. of course it’s real, you idiot.

I have been feeling a little *not myself* the past couple of days.  Laundry was getting behind.  I wasn’t cleaning like a merry maid.  I had no desire to cook anything really.  Those first two things are not unheard of around here, but the cooking thing?  I always love to cook.  Mostly.  Then this morning I woke up and wanted to go directly back to bed.  I know, I know… you’re all thinking this chick must be knocked up.

How may times do I have to tell you guys this? This baby shop is closed.  However, I do still have some working parts.  Sort of.  The ones that make you turn into a raging bitch and eat a vat of Nutella once a month…I still have those.  They are AWESOME.

I remember, back in the good ol’ days when I was young, I used to think people who “had PMS” were just huge drama queen fakers.  I didn’t have mood swings or headaches or bloating.  I didn’t lose my mind and inhale jelly donuts (which I don’t even like) just because they were there and looking at me.  Nope.  I just maintained my cute size six (or sometimes 8) self and ignorantly breezed my way through memses.  Glorious.

Then I got old and some things changed.  The average month is just a little crabbiness, run of the mill stuff.  But then there are freak weeks- weeks that I really wasn’t prepared for the hormone surges and haven’t been preparing myself mentally and emotionally.  These “sneakers” are usually the most damning hell weeks.  They come on like a freight train and destroy everything in their path.  While an average few days of PMS may cause some collateral damage and a few tears may be spilled for no real good reason, Sneaker Weeks are like Tsunamis of irrational emotions that swallow up every good thing that has ever sprouted and bloomed in my life.  They have the potential of destroying sanity.  Because I start wanting to kill people for just, you know, breathing in my vicinity.

Since I basically have to check myself into the halfway house for half-breed mutant serial killers a few days a month complete with stretchy pants and wire-free bras I’m somewhat of an authority on this subject.  Frankly, I’m scared of myself.   So I’ve decided to grace you with a few pointers should you ever be in the cross hairs of a crazed lunatic in the midst of a shark attack.  Print this out.  Tape it to your bathroom mirror.  Memorize it.  It could save your life one day.

1.  Don’t ask her if she’s “feeling okay” or say things like “you look tired.”  {No shit idiot asshole.  I look like shit and feel like someone set off an alka-seltzer bomb in my abdomen.  I can barely hold my eyes open and I know that this ache in my back is early onset back and leg cramps in addition to the normal cramps which will be debilitating within the next 72 hours.  Shut your mouth!}If you should accidentally let this slip out of your mouth, just back away slowly and tell her you’re running to the store really quick to get Cadbury Chocolate Eggs and Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles.  This will save your life. 

2.  Under NO circumstance ask her if she got that one thing done that you’ve been asking her to do.
Man/Woman up and get it done yourself.  She already feels like the biggest loser known to man.  Reminding her of her failures to accomplish anything productive in this trying time will just make her feel crappier.  You must just do it on your own.  If you don’t know how, just buy it.  Whatever it is.  Buy it and be happy about it.

3.  Do not eat noisily.  Chew with your mouth closed and try to limit the amount of saliva you produce so as to avoid the sound of squishing within your oral orifice.  Most people suffer mild cases of Hyperacusis (mouth sound sensitivity).  Add a surge of hormones and irrationality and you just might be wearing your fork as a piercing if you’re not careful.  If you really want to be safe, just let her know you’ll be picking up dinner tonight (and eat on your way home!) and would she like you to bring home ice cream, Twinkies or Lindt chocolates to go with the Triple Crunchy Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes smothered in Gravy?

4.  DON’T TOUCH HER.  Don’t decide that this is the day that you’re feeling needy and really need some cuddles.  You might as well just put her in a coffin and close the lid.  Nothing says claustrophobia like Shark Week and touching.  Just go in a closet and give yourself a big hug.  It will save your life, dammit.

5.  Don’t touch her stuff.  She spends her life loving, nurturing and taking care of people.  She has hardly anything that truly belongs to her.  She has to hide in the bathroom just to get some peace and quiet most days, and if there’s small children around not even that works.  She has three things in this house that actually belong to her.  Just don’t touch it.  JUST DON’T!

6.  This is possibly the most important safety tip.  If you have children, just remove them completely from the situation.  They are not smart enough to follow these rules, plus they just remind her that this hell wouldn’t even be going on if God hadn’t decided that women were to carry babies and Eve hadn’t done whatever the hell she did to make life for all women just a damn cluster-fuck of crap anyway.  Just send them away to play for a while and then ask Grandma to intervene and save their lives.  Grandmas understand, they once endured this hell and lived to tell about it.

This list is ever-changing and evolving.  This crap won’t even work next month so on second thought, don’t memorize this list.  Just mark the dates on your calendar and schedule a getaway when you need to.  Leave behind lots of salty snacks and chocolate and hope to God menopause passes soon and your life will be spared.

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10 thoughts on “pre-menstrual syndrome. of course it’s real, you idiot.

  1. Another benefit of sticking with someone who has the same parts as I.

    And, please don’t be offended that my eyes glazed over and I skimmed after the first two paragraphs. I still love you.

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