PMS

PMS.

The stories are true boys.

Run.

And hide.

Hide good.

Cause we will find you.

My PMS falls into the stereotypical categories of bawling my eyes out one minute, and laughing like a lunatic the next.

I feel every emotion tenfold.

It’s very annoying.

Examples:

I get off work and I’m tired and crabby. My damn computer was running slower than a snail on Lunesta.

Without my computer, I have nothing to do.

So I had to sit there and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Get off work and call my mother.

Usually she answers by the second time I call her.

Not today.

So my irritation level rose 5%.

She calls me back when I’m five minutes from my apartment.

Now see, I like to talk when I’m driving.

I am not trying to pee with the phone in my hand, or one handedly make dinner, or undressing myself while performing a juggling act.

It’s just me.

In my car.

So I answer the phone.

Irritation level 90%.

We say our hello’s.

And she immediately asks me if I’m working at The Job From Hell.

I have been going in occasionally to help The Evil Boss out.

I get paid $50 every time.

I was already irritated with her on this particular topic.

She seems to think that I am still on his clock.

Na ah.

Not the way it works anymore.

He is on mine.

I quit that frickin place for a reason.

And I’m not too enthused about going back.

Plus I had plans to carve pumpkins.

So I told her all of this as I was pulling into the main office at my apartment.

I ordered a very lovely purse off of Etsy and reeeeeaaaaallllyy wanted it.

This was the 4th time I was stopping in to retrieve it.

The past 3 times, the office has been “closed” for a viewing.

Because they apparently don’t make enough money to have two employees on at the same time.

Well whattya know, it’s closed again.

So I let out a curse word before realizing there were other people waiting in the lobby.

Damn it.

Irritation level is inching ever upwards.

I sit there and mom asks me what was wrong.

So I try and explain it to her.

My phone sucks so she was only getting snippets of it.

And I hate repeating myself.

Irritation level: 100%

I growl into the phone.

Clench out that I’d call her later and slam the phone down.

Now I look like a bitch for yelling at my mom and probably a no good hooligan for swearing in public.

I sit in the chair and tap tap tap my foot against the leg of the table I am sitting at.

Finally the little pipsqueak with his all powerful and mighty clipboard arrives.

Opens the door and I’m in.

I get up to the counter.

Give him my name and apartment building and number and wait while he rummages through the packages.

Finally, he finds it.

I am officially 89 years old.

Then.

He asks to see my ID.

I’ve lived at this apartment complex for 2 1/2 years.

Sooo, I get real quiet like and say: “My ID is in the car. I have lived here for over 2 years. Your name is Justin and you started here 6 months ago and you drive a white Toyota Camry and you like to go biking every Thursday afternoon. How’s that for ID? I’ll take my package now. Thanks.”

And I walk out the door.

I stomp and curse all the way back to my car.

ID my ass.

Throw the package in and turn up the radio.

I belt the song out while I drive the short distance to my building and park.

Then I slam my head against the steering wheel.

Aaaand the guilt starts to seep in.

After two minutes, it’s oozing out of my skin and slipping onto my seat.

I start crying.

Not just little drip drip drip tears crying.

I’m wailing.

I grab my phone and call my mother.

She answers and I sob how sorry I was that I was so cranky and how sorry I was that I hung up on her.

She’s flabbergasted.

Tells me it’s ok and not to worry about it.

 I hiccup ok, tell her I love her, and hang up.

I gather my things, look up and see my kitty cat sitting in the window running back and forth after the leaves.

I throw my head back.

And start laughing.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

Arguing with me when I have PMS is never a good idea.

Ever.

I become irrational and develop a firm belief that I am right.

Me: That is soooo that one girl in that movie!

BF: What girl? In what movie?

Me: You know! Her! Right there!

I jab my finger at the TV screen where said girl appears for 1.3 seconds.

BF: Huh?

Girl on TV appears again.

Me: RIGHT THERE! THAT GIRL! SHE’S THAT ONE GIRL ON THAT ONE MOVIE!

BF: You mean that one we watched last week? No. No that’s a different girl.

My hackles are being raised.

I am sure I am right.

Me: No. You’re wrong. That’s the same girl. It is.

BF: Mmm, they look very similar, but they are different. Their noses aren’t the same.

Me: Hmph. I’m telling you they are the same FREAKING GIRL.

BF: Hate to tell ya babe, you’re wrong. I can prove it. I’ll look on Google.

I panic a little.

What if I’m wrong?

Then I’ll look stupid.

And whiney.

And wrong.

So I do the logical thing.

I start crying.

It starts out as a little sniffle.

I try reeeeeaaaaalllllllyyyyyy hard to hide it from the BF.

But try as I might.

I can’t hold the flood back.

It starts coming out in sobs.

I can’t breathe.

So I start snorting in addition to sobbing.

It’s not pretty.

Imagine a piglet trying to hiccup and snort at the same time with an apple in its mouth.

So I’m crying and sobbing and snorting and snot is flowing out of my nose and the BF panics.

One minute we are arguing over an inconsequential matter when BAM, I’m a sniveling mess on the couch.

I choke out: No, sob, don’t look it up, sob. I don’t, sob, want to be, sob sob, wrong.

He says okay several times and sits timidly back down on the couch.

Thinks twice about it.

Goes in the kitchen.

Breaks into my secret stash.

And dumps a whole bag of chocolate on my lap.

Best. BF. Ever.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

If I’m like this when I’m PMSing…I’m scared to think about what I’m going to be like when I’m pregnant or going through Menopause.

Me + Pregnant = Not a good idea.

I know I’ll have wicked cravings at all hours of the morning.

Pickles in my ice cream.

Carrots with chocolate sauce.

Tuna with peanut butter.

And I’ll make him go out and get it too.

Cause if I have to carry the darn kid around for 9 or so months and pretend to enjoy it, he’s going to suffer with me.

I’ll also watch Dirty Dancing on repeat.

Because I can.

I can also imagine myself being a nightmare during menopause.

I’ll see a news story about some poor sap that was hit by a car.

And start crying about how sad it was and how that poor drunk man must be hurting in the hospital not being able to eat McDonalds when he wants.

And what about the person that hit him?

I’ll cry about how F’d his life is now.

He’ll be charged with attempted vehicular manslaughter.

Prison for Life.

But then!

I’ll see a birdie fly by my window.

I’ll jump up and run around the house in my pink fuzzy slippers and yellow bath robe, following its flight path.

All the time pointing and laughing: Look! Look! At the birdie! It’s so cute! It’s so blue! Oooo! Look! It’s eating my birdseed! I knew that was good birdseed!

I tell you…

A. Freaking. Nightmare.

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About delightfulness

One sweet, quirky, delightful individual I am.
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2 Responses to PMS

  1. BrainRants says:

    Menopause is a bitch. You may want to rent an island just for yourself.

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