Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Don't Mess with My PMS

Let's do a thing where I tell you what happened and then we backtrack to WHY it happened and what happened before it, okay? It'll be JUST like Pulp Fiction, only without the snappy dialogue and random head shooting. (Although honestly, I am HIGHLY tempted right now to yell "Say WHAT again, I DARE YOU!" and then possibly give The Man a flesh wound.)

An hour ago, I opened my door and threw about ten soaking wet washcloths onto my front porch and sidewalk. I shut my door. I got my coffee and came upstairs.

See, here at Casa de Sammo, we frequently have what I call "The Washcloth Fight." The kids get one washcloth, per kid, per bath or shower time. I usually hang them up, forget they're hanging there, and then The Man gets all grumpy about the washcloths. Then I throw them in the washer, and the cycle begins again. Well today, I went into my semi-destroyed bathroom (see also: remodeling) and the kid-washcloths were in a pile. On the floor. WET.

In case you didn't get it from the title, I'll go ahead and give you peeps out in Net Land a little heads up. Mommy has wicked PMS. I'm talking weepy, crying, psychotic mood swing PMS. I can't watch the news without sobbing. (Thanks Chile earthquake, you bastard.) I have a VERY hard time handling, uh, small upsets without getting medieval on someone's ass. My kids survive each month due to awesome evolutionary safeguards that prevent me from eating them, like, say a mother fish or something. My husband, on the other hand.....so far he's been lucky.

So I saw those washcloths, and I saw a puddle, and I grabbed them up and out the front door they went. It made sense in my head at the time. The Man hasn't really responded yet. Never let it be said he's not smart, oh no, he knows that when The Crazy is in full effect, it's best to lie low until I eat enough chocolate that I'm distracted and forget.

The washcloths are still scattered all over my sidewalk. I took some trash out to the curb and got a tentative wave from a male neighbor. Maybe he saw me throw them, and maybe he didn't, but either way, my Exorcist Head probably scared him. Maybe he has a wife who tries to kill him every month too, who's to say.

If it's not a defense in court, I know not why. I don't ENJOY being crazy for a few days every month. I don't LIKE waddling around in my fat pants either, until I deflate and look normal again. I don't have FUN eating salt and chocolate and crying about Dr. Drew's family day on Rehab.

You know what I say. If MEN had PMS, there would be a cure. As it is, I wait until The Cramps hit, and shut them up with some vicodin. (No, you can't have any.) (No, I don't enjoy that either.)

According to my doctor (who specializes in women's health) 50% of women see better PMS and stuff after having kids....the other 50%? Well I'll let YOU decide how THAT particular statistic broke down for Your Favorite Writer.

See? Just like Pulp Fiction. Only without the gimp.

Comments, questions, Say WHAT again. I DARE YOU.

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