Currently reading: A Memory of Violets by Hazel Gaynor / Absolute Power: How the Pope Became the Most Influential Man in the World by Paul Collins / Life at the Dakota by Stephen Birmingham / Forever by Pete Hamill
Current Mood: Pensive
Current Weight: Who knows, but judging that I ate half the menu at the Greek restaurant last night, let’s safely round it up to 500 pounds.
Current Solution to current weight: Not a damn thing. I stand by all that sea bass and calamari and pear martinis and flaming cheese.
It doesn’t happen often, but there are days that I wake up in a mood so foul that in addition to everyone else thinking I was a shrew, I contemplate nominating myself for walking sphincter of the year. It’s awful. I don’t even like myself when this happens. The inner dialogue in my head consists of snarking at EVERYTHING dead or alive which inevitably leads to grovelling and pleading for a self-imposed time out. “Oh for the love of all that’s holy, just vacate the premises. Go to your room you savage!”
I know I’m not the only one who goes through this and I also know that the reasons for said savagery varies. In February I was such a….I’ll call it…I was such a world-class, grade A, top of the line, warrantee extended BITCH to my husband that he actually left the house the next morning to work on an imaginary project…
with colleagues he doesn’t even have…
in another state…
ok, he went to Germany. I was that bad.
We were getting our master bathroom updated (which is a pleasant, euphemistic way of saying that it was one step away from a massive disaster. The original plan was to remodel the half bath downstairs and just replace the toilet upstairs to a new half a potato accommodating size toilet (please see Tuber or Not Tuber post for reference). Half of the floor came up with the toilet leading us to suspect that putting off that project for another year or two was not going to happen since we learned that they glued the tile onto plywood and that was our floor. 80’s construction codes is cray right? I know right? This meant the bathroom had to be done now. Now? But I have nothing to wear to this event? This lead to an emotional meltdown on my part which then lead to a day in a Home Depot the size a small city picking out fixtures and vanities and tile and hardware until my head was swimming. Magilla was with his parents installing a new television for his father (birthday present) in preparation for the Superbowl. Sidebar: is there a reason that men need a television the size of a movie theatre screen? Is there some chromosomal makeup which mandates this? Does it proof their virility? No really…I’m asking for a friend on this. So his best friend escorted me through the perils of home renovation. “I love this vanity”, I declared grandly, draping myself over it like a drunken model displaying something on The Price is Right complete with the sweeping hand gesture. “Yes honey”, he responded graciously, ‘But it’s bigger than your bathroom wall and won’t fit through the door.” What kind of monster are you??? I can totally fit a double sink in my palatial bathroom. It’s only 5X8? These are silly details. So Magilla would yell at me that I’m not making responsible choices? I can take him. It’s pretty.
So, needless to say, we didn’t get that vanity.
We had to order all of the stuff from Home Depot which added a three-week delay on the project. Then there were storms and flu and famine and work conflicts and health issues and business trips and assorted other things of which no one had any control and the project delayed and delayed and delayed and I just hit the bitch wall and ultimately wound up something like this:
I’ll freely admit that I probably was due for my period and hated the world and every man in it and by that I mean I targeted my dear sweet husband. He was breathing at a decimal level not otherwise detectable unless I’m in that magical window about 1 to 3 days pre-period and therefore he must be thoroughly educated on the multitude of ways that men have ruined the earth. I’m a complete waste of emotional balance during this time. I hear everything, I sleep little, I eat volumes, I cry at the drop of a hat or a song or a commercial or …face it I’m/just/plain/awful. And yet he still loves me in spite of my attitude and the fact that anytime he wants to get frisky with me, our dog 🐓blocks him. I’m not sure if she’s defending his virtue or mine, but she’s diligent in this endeavor. We’ve tried to inform her that it’s legal since we’re married, but she’s having none of that jazz. Still, he presses on in his undying love of me. Bless his heart. He’s a trooper. I should probably check his night stand for secret supply of Xanax.
Years ago, when relaying the facts of womanhood to my daughter, or what I like to call, The Tween Nail Biting Hormonal Years In Which There Were Intense Hostage Negotiations Involving Baked Goods, I explained gently that women tend to get emotional during “their time of the month”. Remember these talks? During the rise of hormones of my generation, we had the honor….NAY the privilege – of female hygiene products finally being advertised on television. Remember the “less than fresh” commercials? Ah memories. These well rehearsed and well versed chats were always chock full of expressions so glossed over and tidied up (You’ll see a small amount of blood/The cramps are slightly uncomfortable but nothing that Tylenol can’t cure/you may want a little chocolate) that even my grandmother who could emotionally handle NOTHING could get through them. So as I’m explaining this, she sweetly asked if this was why I was so rotten three days a month. Yes sweetie, it is. It’s also why at 11:30 last night, amidst growling noises and random howling, Mommy ate peanut butter right out of the jar while standing over the kitchen sink to catch the Hershey’s syrup I was pouring directly onto the spoon over the blob of peanut butter that was roughly the size of my mouth BUT DO I LOOK FAT?!!!#%@#^? That’s also why my voice drops off when saying any word that starts with F (flea, flying, fan, forever, finale, fandango OR EVERY OTHER WORD THAT STARTS WITH F) for fear that it would morph into dropping the F bomb. My mother raised a lady….
She took it as a moral imperative to act semi-psychotic during her mensing stints; because obviously I set great examples. She would yell at people while I was driving. She’d yell at the cats for crapping because it smelled too much, even though she was two rooms away (and behind a closed door I might add) from the litter box. I finally drew the line when she yelled at me for the lack of Oreo’s in our house. Alright, my little estrogen nugget, let’s take it down a notch now shall we? Mommy is good, Mommy is wise and you are financially dependent on me since you’re only fourteen so if you wish to live to see fifteen or if you ever want Oreo’s again I suggest you walk this crap off…MMMKAY? I don’t mean to sound dismissive but if you’ve ever fought off a rabid teenager, you know what I’m talking about.
I don’t know if she expected me to call the police to launch a full-fledged investigation as to who may or may not have eaten the Oreo’s. Should there have been a police sketch hung on my kitchen wall of the suspect? Should we call John Walsh and have him run an exposé on this nefarious character? Shall I canvas the town like some Sally Field movie asking any and all if they KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THIS SITUATION? I had awful visions of me grabbing some elderly man by the lapels of his coat and shaking him as I wailed, “What did you see sir? WHAT DID YOU SEEEEEEEEE?”
She failed to find the rather obvious humor in these queries.
All these years later, I think she realizes that civility actually must trump hormones. Unless it’s your husband…obviously. He married you in spite of your, ummmm, shortcomings. But it’s simply not becoming to answer the rest of the world and all other human interaction with…
Even if they did take the last Oreo.