Okay, I am a reasonably happy homo sapien 75% of the time. I go about my business with a smile on my face, and sometimes, a lift in my loafers. However, this all flies out the window at the end of the month. Combine the premenstrual hormones and full moon? I become one of two people: a walking crying jag, or a demonic gnome, looking for my next kill.
“There once was a girl, with a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good? She was very, very good-but when she was bad, she was horrid.”
Here is a sample of my behavior during the “horrid” days: I become enraged and engorged at the slightest criticism, poke, or taunt. I have been known to spew vitriolic rage at unsuspecting people; my poor husband for one. Here is a recent conversation, while under the influence of FMRMS, or what I like to call full moon raging menopausal syndrome. I wish I could call it pms, but that shipped sailed a few months ago.
“Honey, try to be happy today,” my husband whispers at 5:30 a.m.
Come again, mother f***er? What are you saying? That my depression doesn’t suit you? Am I that big of a drag? When fully awake, I run to my social media, and drop the bomb: I will send him a depression meme, one that puts him in his place. How DARE he ask me to be happy, I earned this, I inherited this condition. Why, why I am going to go out for breakfast with my gal pal Dot and I won’t tell him where I am going. I will ignore all texts, emails and Facebook messages. I swear to God…I’ll……..(when the subject comes up later that day, Dwain looks at me as if I have channeled Lady Gaga in American Horror Story.)
The crying jags are the worst. I have been seen bawling like a child because my cats killed a toad, vole, mouse, you fill in the blank. I am sure my in-laws, who live across the street, hear my sobs.
“Poor BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I then yell at my cats, in a glass breaking pitch, and they run for cover, diving under trees, wheelbarrows, our four-wheeler…..
This is some bad juju, people. For the love of God, somebody get this girl a chocolate bobka-and perhaps an Ativan or two.