Okay lady friends (and those gentleman who've decided to peruse this entry), we all know how much we hate to be accused of having PMS. Sure, sure, it's fine for us to admit we have it or joke about having it but please, for the Love of God, don't tell us that's what our problem is...
For example, I had a mood swing so extreme this past Saturday that I'm sure a slight tsunami was created. Had a great day. So relaxed. Caught up on a bunch of TV shows, laid on the couch, just vegged. It was super fantastic. Felt really good about it. Then it was time to get up and get moving again. Off to work a fundraiser for my son's upcoming trip to Europe. I didn't want to go. I dislike 98% of the people in the fundraising group. It was cold out. I was going to be mixing drinks, in the cold, for the next three hours straight. With idiots. Anyway, my youngest had woken up from his nap and I was trying to get ready so I called (yelled really loudly and probably somewhat demanding-ly) down to my husband to ask him to come and get this guy up and out of his crib. And my husband had the nerve to respond in kind. He yelled at me! Can you believe it? I certainly did not. I was only raising my voice to be helpful and heard over the TV....and even if I was being somewhat 'curt' there is certainly no need to yell back. So then after a mild discussion in the bedroom where he had the audacity to accuse ME of freaking out, I lost my mind for about 30 seconds. I may or may not have picked up and slammed down a decorative basket. I may have raised my voice ever so slightly to impress upon an important point I was making. Really, the details are not important, what is important, is I was fucking mad. So mad I was even kind of surprised at myself. In the moment, I was convinced this was very likely HIS fault. So I left the house without saying another word and drove to the meeting spot for the fundraiser.
Cut to Tim Horton's parking lot. I inform my co-fundraisers I will be driving in by myself and am relieved when they don't ask why. Actually, to back it up a bit, on the 10 minute drive to Tim Horton's I considered saying "fuck it" and heading to Saskatoon or to Regina and using my credit card and just having a night away and not telling my husband where I was or what I was doing. As this likely would've really smoothed things over between us. I should point out that Saskatoon is the farther place from me, and it's only two hours away. I'm a rebel. So rebellious, in fact, that instead I went to the fundraiser.
Anywho, I tell the ladies I'm going alone. And maybe there was a touch of crazy in my eyes because no one argued or asked why. They simply accepted this. I did not look at what they were driving, just got into my SUV-crossover type of vehicle, that seats 7, and sped off to Regina. I beat them to our destination and waited in the parking lot. They pulled in. Five people in a little four door sedan. They all saw me get out of vehicle and then shoe-horned themselves out of theirs. Now, I'm not a fan of some of these folks, but I felt like a real a-hole.
So then it was time to start bartending. Myself and my 'partner' (read: idiot) were supposed to be making rye & cokes. Just for future reference and for those of you non-drinkers, rye and cokes are comprised of two things: rye. and. coke. So football fans are thirsty people and apparently when it's cold they can't get enough rye and coke. There was some pressure involved in this situation. So I set to filling cups with ice and shots of rye. I looked around for my partner/idiot and noticed she and her big ass were filling up a jug with pink lemonade. Confused? I was. And enraged. It took every last ounce of self control and common decency not to go over and yank the jug out of her hand and ask her what the fuck she was doing. Sorry if you are offended by the language (if you are, we probably shouldn't ever converse in person, especially if I'm at work) but I literally just stared at her for awhile, bottle of Rye in my hand and a tiny bit of irrational hatred in my heart. This carried on for most of the evening. She bumped into my with her ass more times than I care to mention and always managed to be in the way. Helpful, thanks.
But I've let this get away from me...by the time I got home that night (after offering a ride home to some of my co-fundraisers so as not to feel as quite as big of an ass) I was in a good mood again. Cuddled up with said husband who I nearly shanked prior to leaving the house and all was good.
That was definitely the biggest swing but it happened on the worst possible day. I've had little ups and downs since. Today I was not waited on in a timely fashion in a clothing store so left all of my stuff on the counter and walked out....maybe some leftover hormone issues there. Patience isn't really my strength to begin with.
Point being, why the hell does PMS have to be so crazy? You never know from month to month what it will bring; it could be cramps from hell or bloating that just won't quit or several small or one major psychotic episode. Really, Mother Nature, what's the point? Give us girls a break. Then I got to thinking, maybe the whole point is to make this special time of the month so miserable, us girls will just keep getting knocked up to avoid it. Aha! I'm sure there's some kind of study done on that. Either way I'll carry on with being crazy because if I have anymore kids someday one idiot is going to get in my way and end up with a jug of pink lemonade shoved up her ass.