Monday, November 22, 2010

Someone Revoke my License to Practice Life

I have some very subtle signs that The Time of the PMS is upon us, monkeys. Subtle signs. Like, suddenly, I can't watch Dateline without sobbing hysterically. Or I send long rambling emails detailing my emotional landscape to my husband while he's working. (I'm sure he finds it RIVETING.) Or I look around at the crumbs on the floor, the laundry spilling out into the hall and sigh heavily. WHY BOTHER.

Subtle, if getting hit in the knee with a hammer is subtle.

And really, someone should just zap me with a cattle prod, and then while I'm twitching on the floor and drooling, haul me off in a Serial Killer Van to some remote location where I can spend the next week or so NOT interacting with other humans.

It's the humane thing to do. For all of us.

I saw on television recently that a man was arrested because, in a fit of pique over the results of Dancing with the Stars, he'd shot his television. (He was only arrested because he'd pointed the gun at his wife - apparently capping the tv is totally legally legit.) Is it wrong that this made TOTAL SENSE to me?

PMS for me = wanting to solve problems with my shot gun.

Usually, I'll sort of become aware in mid-rant that I am making absolutely no fucking sense and I'm channeling not only my dad, but some of my mom and a bit of Stalin. That's when I'll realize that my immediate family is all staring at me warily, the way you would a dog who was afraid of water and glaring with bright red eyes.

I'm the Cujo of wives once a month.

And the only thing you can do when you realize you make no sense is clearly to KEEP TALKING. Eventually, you can (probably) connect enough related items that your audience will sense a tiny bit of validity and then when you've utterly defeated them with your psychotic domestic filibuster, you can stomp off in demented triumph.

Here is a helpful visual aide:

While I do have medicine to help with this situation, it sort of renders me like this:

And as anyone will tell you, it's pretty hard to parent from the couch when you're being distracted by the ceiling texture. Or the wall. (But not Pink Floyd's The Wall because THAT might make my medication MUCH more interesting.)

So really I can either be Cujo Mom or Lobotomy Lady. Choices choices. Oh well. It's only a few more days until I become normal, right? Unless someone breaks out that Serial Killer Van and the cattle prod...

Comments, questions, how's YOUR pms?