DISCLAIMER! WARNING: Cease and desist reading if you are one of THOSE guys who just rolls his eyes or gets ill when your girlfriend/wife/bff/sister/lizard/etc starts talking about menstrual type stuff. Just close this window and walk away. Pretty please with beer on top?
Have you ever seen the commercial about PMDD? (The purple acronym is a link to the commercial, just in case you don’t know what I mean or have forgotten it by now). Imagine me in my serious announcer voice as I explain: “PMDD stands for Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. PMDD is a severe form of Premenstrual Disorder (PMS). Like PMS, PMDD follows a predictable, cyclic pattern. Anxiety, anger, and depression may occur. The main symptoms may be disabling. And BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Because I have PMS, this is annoying me and I don’t want to read the rest of it.
DISCLAIMER: If you have PMDD, and you are getting very angry reading this because you think I’m about to make fun of you (which I’m not), please close the window and walk away. I don’t want anyone to hunt me down and kill me or put a hex on my blog.
I don’t think I have PMDD, I think I have EXTREME PMS! It’s not like regular PMS, because I swear it lasts about two weeks. And I never know when it’s going to strike, because I’m not, um, regular (in sooooooo many more ways than I’m implying here.) I get so bloated that I think that something is seriously wrong. Clothes that fit two days before no longer fit. I’m miserable. This can last anywhere from three to fourteen days, depending on the month.
DISCLAIMER: If you are a hutt, don’t hate me. Please.
Not only do I feel like Jabba, I also want to eat everything in sight. In other words I have slightly less willpower than I usually do. Evil Genius knows he can get away with certain things without me trying to kill him, at least right away. There have been multiple *Peanut Butter Bars incidents in our house, where he has made these delectable homemade treats that can best be described as an eight pound Reeses Peanut Butter cup. They are filled with crack, or meth, or some kind of drug. I can’t stop eating them. I have been known to ok the making of these under the influence of XPMS. Then after I have eaten most of it and come to my senses I force him to take what is left out of the house and feed them to his coworkers. Tonight I made homemade apple crisp, because I wanted it. I never do that (bake something for me). And I ate it. WITH vanilla ice cream. The justification of this was a) I made it with whole wheat flour and b) it was light vanilla ice cream. This was after I devoured tater tot casserole, something I also almost never make. That wasn’t nearly as good, since the tater tot portion was freezer burnt. More justification for the Apple Crisp, right?
*I’ll post the recipe for the crack, I mean, Peanut Butter Bars, in an upcoming edition here soon. I promise. Just in case you have PMS and want to hate yourself too.
On top of having the moves like Jabba and eating my house, I also get a bit moody. It’s most just deep dark depression and lots of crying for a couple of days, but I also get kinda bitchy. But mostly it’s crying, and anything sets me off. Luckily, unlike the other crap, this only lasts for a day or two. Although I’ve never killed anyone that I care to admit, I think that She-Ra also suffered from XPMS (click the link to watch). When you have XPMS and a sword, people had better run.
The last part of this great phase that makes it all especially fun is the Migraine. I have told all about my fun with migraines in a previous post, Brains on the Floor. I get a really fabulous headache with all of this, it just really makes it extra great. When you have kids, you have to get them to try to understand that Mommy is out of commission for awhile. I have to lay on the couch with the lights off and the curtains closed and pray for sweet death. My daughter kisses me on the head and tells me she is going to take care of me, and then gets out the musical instruments that make the most noise. Honey, you said you were going to take care of me, not cause my brains to ooze out of my ears.
It just really sucks, being a girl sometimes, you know? And then the shit really hits the fan when that’s over and the fun really begins. CRAMPS! Yay. Take an Advil, grab a heating pad, and curl up under a blanket for a few hours. Oh yes, and by the way, those commercials where the lady is doing yoga and wearing all white, that’s a myth. You can’t do that. At least I can’t, because it would be really messy and gross.
The best thing about being pregnant, aside from being able to eat whatever I wanted, was the fact that for a couple of years of my adult life I didn’t have to deal with any of this stuff. I’m not saying that labor was a picnic because it wasn’t, but I’m talking about the rest of the time…
It’s not like we really get a break from feeling lousy aside from that. I understand once you finish having all of this fun you get a whole new set of stuff to deal with, like hot flashes. Oh wow I can’t wait! To paraphrase Frank Barone from Everybody Love Raymond, “What lottery in hell did I win?” What did we women do to deserve all of this every month?
What, me irritable? I’m just getting warmed up… somebody pass me a Gas-X. Now let’s have some Apple Crisp and forget it all ever happened.