Language Warning (Seriously)

This time the bitch did not catch me quite so unprepared.  Well nothing happened yet but I know it's going to.  And how do I know that?

Let's see...first of all I had trouble sleeping last night, despite a fucking fantastic dream about Jax from Sons of Anarchy and his proclamation that I am the greatest and a life time member of the MC (that's Motorcycle Club people; I'm so up on the lingo).  Anyway, why Mother Nature (who really, do you think it's a female? It seems only a male would make us suffer this much) feels it necessary to deprive a hormonal woman of sleep is beyond me. 

Anyway, hormones + lack of sleep= Me crying in the kitchen this morning, completely unprovoked; which = confused family.

I couldn't stop.  I wasn't full out sobbing or anything, just crying.  Just tired and fed up with being me.  My mornings are chaotic and it wears on a girl after awhile.

Then I pulled myself together and was having a sort of pleasant morning, despite the gas and bloating and decided to check in on my other blog (Driven) where I found a comment I did not appreciate.  The first of it's kind.  Which I suppose is maybe good because doesn't it say somewhere that you haven't really 'made' it until someone doesn't like you?

Well, here I fucking am; I've arrived.

I guess this person is a big fan of Jersey Shore and took offense to me not liking it, but further to that, is upset I watch Biggest Loser and 19 Kids & Counting.  That in and of itself did not bother me because whatever, different strokes for different folks.  What pissed me off was this person asking when I was going to "get over" Mother Truckers.  And then didn't have the balls to post their name.  Which, in my opinion, makes them an honest to God Motherfucker. 

Have I mentioned previously I don't do well with criticism?

I like using Mother Truckers because it's less offensive than the former and I have a couple of friends, in particular, who I've never even heard use the 'f' word and so it's out of respect for them.  Which is my choice because, and I may have mentioned this before, IT'S MY FUCKING BLOG.  Now some of you are asking why I'm so worked up about this and to just move past it and who cares what that person thinks.  To that I say, did you not see the title of this blog and read the first paragraph?  I'm hormonal.  So that + generally sensitivity to criticism = can't stop thinking about it and want to lash out irrationally.  And so here we are.

I published the comment because it's not actually offensive and everyone gets their turn to speak their minds but seriously, use your fucking name a-hole. 

So now I will sit and stew about this for the remainder of the day.  Or at least until I go for lunch with the girls and then to work where I'll undoubtedly become increasingly bitchy depending on how the day goes.

Here's a fun fact:  if you are out and about and happen to be in a retail establishment of any sort and someone asks if they can help you?  They are doing so because they have to.  And to be courteous.  You acting like someone just asked to fuck you up the ass?  Is not okay.  A polite: "No Thank You" is really good enough.  Oh, and the employees are not responsible for how things are merchandised.  Keep that in mind too.  One more thing, if out and about and shopping, and this is just a general request as a person, not an employee of anywhere, please find a shirt to wear that does not expose your navel.  Especially if you are a man who weighs roughly in the neighborhood of 250-260 pounds and your abdomen (it is not a 'tummy' or 'belly' in this instance) is hairy.  That's fucking gross.  Nobody wants to look at your navel.  It's not a belly button because belly button denotes cuteness.  That is not cute. It's fucking revolting.  My navel is nothing to write home about either which is why the only time it is ever exposed is in the shower and even sometimes then I feel I should cover it with a wash cloth. It's been through four pregnancies.  Not. Pretty.  Again, this is why I wear a shirt that is in tact, all of the time, but especially when I LEAVE THE FUCKING HOUSE.

Motherfucker. 

That was for you "Anonymous".

Losing My Edge

So as much as I purport to have quite a 'mean streak', if you will, lately I have been losing my edge.  Hormones are to blame.  For example, the other day I was running somewhat late on my way to work and so I inadvertently cut off a woman on my commute.  I honestly thought I had time and the room to pass her.  I did not.  She expressed her displeasure a number of times.  When I caught her face in the side mirror I apologized to which she responded with a raised middle finger.  I again said I was sorry but her finger remained raised.  I then responded in kind. I continued on my way to work and watched as this car followed me.  As my husband had been followed by a road raging lunatic the previous Monday I hoped the same wasn't happening to me.  The exception being she was justified in her anger.  Which only made it worse if she was following me.

Guess what?  She is actually one of my new co-workers.  Isn't that super?!

I parked a few cars away from her and high-tailed it into the building.  Trying to look un-bothered as I sped walked.

Then she accosted me once inside. She advised it would be wiser and safer for me to have more patience on the road.  She was pissed.  I apologized.  She wasn't having any of it.  We went our separate ways.

However I could not shake it.  This is a new job.  This is not the first impression I was hoping to make.  I had visions of her spreading the word about the new dumb ass bad driver stupid bitch at work.

So I waited until my co-worker was busy and phoned said woman to attempt damage control.  I was more than worried. So I called and made a more sincere apology and offered to buy said woman a cup of coffee.  She assured me we were "good" now and the coffee would not be necessary.  So I hung up, feeling marginally better, and here it is, practically bawling.

Gah!

I watched as my co-worker returned and 101 explanations and excuses raced through my mind as how I would justify my big watery eyes and red nose. 

I know, loser.

Luckily I gained composure quickly and she was otherwise occupied so I did not have to explain anything.

Were the oh-so-special-est time of the month of all not approaching?  I likely would have had the same concerns but a) would have kept the tears at bay and b) likely would've been more angry with her initial rejection of my apology.

Instead I was a a giant pussy.

No pun intended.

And tonight I teared up watching America's Funniest Home Videos. Again.  These people surprised their little boy with a trip to Disneyland.  Too much for my hormonal ass to cope with, apparently.

Sigh. This sucks.

I much prefer angry me.  Sad me is pathetic.  Pathetic, bloated and full of chips.

Did I mention attractive?

Nevermind

Mother Nature does not fuck around and apparently she reads this blog.  I was fine.  I was fucking happy. Then the last two hours happened and suddenly I'm ready to kick some ass.  Anybodies ass.  My puppy, whom I love just accidentally head butted me and I had to put him down and walk away because the bitch/anger/homicidal factor is at it's limit.  I'd prefer to be left alone to watch whatever I want and eat some chicken (I'm having an insane craving for chicken) in silence.  Is that going to happen? No.  Why?  Because when not menstruating and homicidal I pro-created like a motherfucker and there are kids all over the place.  And animals. Animals that all I had a hand in bringing into this house.  Right now though?  I'd kill for an empty single bedroom apartment stocked with chicken, Grape Vodka, chocolate and elastic waisted pants and no mirrors. 

Is it too much to ask?

Hey, keep your fucking opinions to yourself because that, a-holes, was a rhetorical question.

I quit smoking some eight years ago but I may go find one right now before I go all Scarface on somebody. Or Gemma.  Gemma from SOA.  With a skateboard.  If you haven't watched that show yet (and that particular reference is from Season 1) then I don't know why you're still here.  It's a pre-requisite to being a party to this blog.

Which? I already fucking told you.

Get there faster.

I need a drink.

Help

I almost missed it.  Well, I suppose you can't really miss it but it caught me unaware again.   Then my body did the same old same old and I caught on.  How did I come to almost not recognize the signs of impending discomfort?  I only had a day or two of irritability unmatched by no other but that was also coupled with a night of two of bad sleep so I chalked it up to that. 

I was weepy.  But not regular, omigod I can't believe you spoke to me like that! weepy.  More of a I'm so happy and filled with joy about life weepy.  I was talking to my husband about something new I am embarking on and felt the tears creeping up. I contained them but wondered what the hell?  I was embarrassed.  But him, being a penis bearer?  Was oblivious to the whole thing.  Thank God.  And that happened more than once this week.  Happy almost tears.

This is why I was confused.

If you've been following along you know 'happy' is not the word to describe me at this oh-so-special time of the month.  Satanic.  Possessed.  Mean.  Those are all fitting.  Happy?  Kind?  Joyful?  These are words almost never used to describe me, no matter what the day.  My 'edge' is part of my charm.  Well, for those who like me, it is, for those who don't....it's not rocket science.  Not that it bothers me.  If you can't cope with edge than we are never going to get along.  If you can't get wrapped up in Sons of Anarchy to the point where you fantasize being somebodies 'old lady' in an unhealthy fashion?  We're not going to work.

Generally speaking.

Until this week. This week I'm just as apt to listen to Celine Dion (gag) while eating veggies and dip (double gag). This may be a slightly exaggeration, but I think you get my point.

Not that I think anyone around here is complaining. I've even made a concerted effort, gasp, to correct my husband less often than usual.  I saw what a bitch I was being and realized it's okay to let stuff slide.  What?  Who said that? Who? Who?

I'm not sure if this hormonal or what but I'm afraid. Someone piss me off, quick, just so I can see if I respond in the appropriate curse-fueled/filled fashion. 

Please...for the Love of God, before I go out and grab a Yanni CD.

My Uterus has Street Cred

I have been experiencing Mother Nature's little monthly gift for twenty years now.  I was 13 when I started and I'm 33 now.  Yet, every month I continue to be somewhat surprised by my period's appearance.  Wait, let me correct myself, I am surprised when Janet shows up (see previous post: The Gift That Just Keeps on Giving).  This last week I have been more irritable than usual, nearly wept on more than one occasion and was just plain old Bitchy.  I just kept blaming it on lack of sleep.  Lack of sleep because of the new puppy. That's another story for another time.

Take for instance this very moment.  I'm trying to write and my oldest son is trying to joke with me.  It's taking every ounce of self-restraint not to scream "FUCK OFF" at him.  Just because he's talking to me.  Yep, Janet's definitely here.

Earlier today I picked my daughter up from the airport.  She was visiting her dad in B.C. for the week.  I talked to her twice and we texted lots while she was gone.  Upon seeing her though I needed to use a great deal of self-restraint in order to stop myself from sobbing.

Some physical signs have accompanied my highly charged emotions. This led me to start thinking of my uterus as a tiny gangster.  Like most of the time, she's chill.  Hangin' with her homies and just keepin' it real.  Then once a month, bitch goes off.  And I picture this tiny uterus gangster screaming at the ovaries and fallopian tubes and being like: "It's go time motherfuckahs!" Like all cracked out on the hormones and out of control.  My uterus has a grill too I think.  And believe you me, she's packin' heat.

She will not rest until Janet is in full control.  Which is why yesterday when my husband accused me of being rude (when I was making fun of him) and said he didn't want to talk to me anymore, I nearly burst into tears and fell into the depths of self-pity and slunk out of the room with my laundry basket.  Sometimes Janet is a little bitch.

The next time though?  Janet will come atch' you and you won't even see her comin'.  You'll feel it motherfuckers.  Which is why, dear friends, I'm all for gun control because if I lived somewhere in which it was easy to obtain and carry a firearm, I'd be in jail. 

What shall I call my tiny gangster uterus?  U-Dog?  Lakisha?  Denise? Maybe something simple like Jill.  I think it should be less obvious of a gang name than not, because for the other 21 days of the month or so, she really doesn't cause any problems.  It's that one week when her meth lab blows up and in turn, everyone pays.  I was going to say most of all me but given I practically just growled at the approaching teenager and asked him not to look at me, that may not be accurate.

Luckily I was just at the grocery store and stocked up on peanut butter cups, chocolate chip cookies and three bags of chips.  And I've changed into my elastic waisted shorts. 

All I need now is to be left alone.  For my safety and yours.

The GiftThat Just Keeps on Giving

So I've decided the only thing worse or even comparable to suffering from one's own PMS is living with a person who possesses half your DNA, who is also PMSing.  My daughter is 13.  Her and I are on the same 'schedule'.  Well really just as I'm re-evolving back into myself she is becoming possessed by some unpredictable mean girl named Julie.  Julie is just what I've decided to call her when she's suffering the throes of monthly mind/body/soul manipulation courtesy of Mother Nature.

I'm not bashing her.  I love her very much.  It's just that now I have an inside look into watching somebody you are familiar with turn into someone else altogether.   She's mean.  She's hard to please.  She's emotional.  Oh, wait, she's happy.  Um, wait, no she's not.  Somebody feed her some chocolate!  Yesterday I bought her some Midol type of pills and it made me think of that episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond" where Ray brings homes the pills to Debra and he's quite proud of himself and she nearly shoves them up his ass.  I envisioned a similar scene unfolding when I presented daughter with them yesterday.  Instead she just looked at me and barely acknowledged my presence.  I backed away quietly.

My dear daughter comes from a long line of women who are more than a little impacted by hormones.  None of us, to date, have had an easy go of it.  We could've written that new Kotex commercial with the awesome chic talking about twirling and kittens.  There is no escape. 

Now should things ever really line up and we both 'transform' at the exact same time, I'm afraid we'll have to rent an apartment in the name of sparing the penis-bearers in our home.  Because God help them, they couldn't say or do anything right for, at the very least, a few pivotal hours or so.  On the best of days it's trial and error but when Julie and Janet (my alter ego, I've decided) are around, it's nearly impossible.

Oh well, at 33 and 13, we respectively have approximately 20 and 30 or so years to go.  Maybe more, maybe less.  This seems so unfair.  I'm of the belief Mother Nature should back off until females are at least 16 and then once done child bearing, be done.  Not in a nasty night sweating hot flashing beard growing way, just done.  Or if you choose not to have children, once that decision is firmly made, you get to be done. 

Alas, I am not Mother Nature.  Just some poor soul with an alter-ego who makes a timed monthly appearance and a daughter following in the same path....

Bring on the Midol (for Julie, Janet prefers Vodka).

Caught Unaware

Ever since my husband did right by me and got himself the big 'V' I don't do a real good job of keeping track of my 'Ladies' Days'.  So I find myself increasingly irritated, unable to sleep and ingesting salt at an unhealthy rate and not having a clue why.  So I just did a little checking here and found out, yep, it's not only work related stress contributing to insomnia...

It also explains my complete lack of patience with the small humans in my home.  It's Canada Day today.  Our equivalent of July 4th only with less blue decorations.  Well, not less, there are no blue decorations.  Anyway, we are planning on heading down the local park to take in the festivities and enjoy the day. However after hearing "Mom" upwards of 37 times this morning by 9 a.m. I said this to my six year old:

"If you don't start being good now, we are not going to the park." (this is reasonable)

"We will not get Slurpees or take snacks; we will stay home and watch Educational programming and eat raw carrots and celery WITHOUT DIP." (first part reasonable, second half, more punishment for me than them; I have a real issue with vegetables.  Especially raw).

He giggled, asked if we could take some bread for the ducks and walked away.  At six, he knows mommy is all bark and no bite except for the hours imminently preceding the arrival of Mother Nature's most precious gift.  But since he doesn't even know about that yet, he doesn't know he's playing with fire.

Right now I'm enjoying blessed quiet thanks to the 3-D version of Coraline borrowed from the library yesterday. I have already kicked them outside for awhile this morning but still, it leaves me wondering, what did moms do before movies or TV, even?  I shudder to think.  Although the majority of children were home and play dates weren't formally arranged affairs.  This new technologically advanced uber-organized world may not be doing anyone any favours in some respects.

As for me, I started the day with a frozen chocolate bar and three cups of coffee.  I still have more chocolate.  For now anyway.

Happy Canada Day!

Kindness at Wal-Mart

I got home from a trip to Wal-Mart a little while ago.  What's so special about that? Not much until I looked at the contents of my shopping trip sailing past me on the little black conveyor belt...

Super Plus tampons, a bag of Fudgee-Os, a bag of chocolate covered almonds, a bag of chocolate macaroons and a four litre jug of skim milk. ( I feel like the person who goes through a drive thru and orders a second super-sized meal for an imaginary friend but gets a Diet Coke).

Pretty impressive, hey? I'm just thankful the cashier was not me because I'm not sure I could let someone pass through with an order like that without comment or at least a smirk.

I feel pretty.

Mo' Money Blues

One last thing. My two eldest children have recently taken to commenting on my money management.  This led to the following discussion with my 16 year old last night.

16:  Why didn't I get to go to a concert for my Grade 8 Grad?

Me:  You got a fucking $200 guitar. Yes, I'm aware profanity and parenting don't mix. Please note the Title...PMS.

16:  It was only $190.

Me: No, it was over $200 and I can check that. I know it was.  Don't really have a way to confirm. Not without more effort than I'm actually willing to put forth.

16:  Whatever.

Me:  I'm tired of you people commenting on my money.  I eat shit everyday (at work) for my money and if I fucking want to spend it all on magic beans and vodka I can!  At this point I can hear my husband giggling at the table.  Had the hormones not been raging, I might have joined him.  However feeling too indignant.

16:  Muttering to himself and likely wishing he'd never said anything.

Me:  It's one concert ticket.  Like a dog with a bone.  She even offered to pay for half.

16: Okay! Fine! Good!

So in hindsight I may have overreacted.  A little. Why my daughter wants to see Justin Bieber in concert is beyond me, but then again, at 13, I possessed my very own Milli Vanilli tape. I can't therefore judge.

Beef Jerky is a Bitch

Oh boys and girls, it's not been a pretty week. It took me a day or two to catch on as to why, but I've got it figured out.  It also explained my affinity for beef jerky and chocolate combined.  So where to begin?

Let's start with the chicken pox that barely were.  Yes, Reese got the chicken pox but it may have just been the mildest case in the history of the world.  This made me almost inexplicably angry. Even a little at him which was warning sign #1. Really, in the end, I convinced myself to feel happy the little focker did not suffer. At all.  However, I had to return to work Friday because his daycare provider was willing to have him back and given how mild of a case he had and the stuff I had read, it was more than okay for him to go to school too.

I realized this Thursday afternoon.  Bitch factor increased at that moment by 100% which is why the following conversation was almost too much to bear.  I have to preface it by saying a friend was over Wednesday night and he brought beer and he and my husband drank the beer. I had one.  The next morning I was having Reese take the empties to recycling when he asked how many beer a person can drink and still drive.  My answer was "one or two".  He then asked how many our friend had the previous evening. I couldn't lie as he was staring at the empties and can count, so I said he shouldn't have driven.

Cut to 3:20 in the afternoon and we are driving to pick up his sister from school and I am stuck in the vortex of hell that is driving through this town and a grand speed of 25 km/h.

Reese:  Mom, what do you and Dad do when you drink too many beer? I didn't feel it prudent to correct him by pointing out the obvious...Mommy favours vodka.

Me:  Well, you know how we sometimes have to go pick our truck up from (friend's) house?

Reese: Yeah.

Me:  Well, that's because we had more than one or two beer and so we call a cab or last time, Steven came and picked us up.

Reese:  What's a cab?

Meanwhile we are crawling along at barely moving speed and I'm running late AND I left my cell at home so can't even reach my daughter.

Me: Sigh. You call a cab to come and pick you up at a certain address, and then when it gets there, you tell them which address to take you to, and then you pay them money for driving you.

Reese:  Why wouldn't you just take a taxi?

Me: For the Love of God.  A taxi and a cab are the same thing.

Reese:  Are they the same colour?

Me:  Voice beginning to slightly raise.  It doesn't matter they are exactly the same thing!

Reese: Oh.

Crying on the inside.

Cut to Friday. Went back to work.  Never a good thing but by 11 a.m. I was on my way to P.A., which again is a 3 1/2 hour drive one-way.  By the time I got home at 9:30 that night, I had ingested more salt than anyone in the free world should.  And again, I was undeniably drawn to beef jerky chased by chocolate.  This time it was chocolate cupcakes with a cream filling. Not Hostess.  Oh no, friends, McSweeney's is where it's at.  I attacked those things like it was going out of style and then looked at the caloric content of such bliss.  440 calories. Just like that. In a matter of what couldn't have been more than a minute.

Thank you to my body for not overly betraying these clandestine car cravings.

Then this morning my husband (whom I'm pretty sure I still love, not sure about like, but yes, love) and I had 'words'.  Guess what?  All the marriage advice folks out there always provide the same pre-marital words of wisdom: discuss finances and children.  Well, I have another one:  children should be incumbent on sleep schedules. If you are like me and have married a Nocturnal Ned who sucks at getting out of bed in the morning for anything other than home renovations (again not our own) or anything other than parenting, you need to know this going in.  I shared thoughts similar to this with him this morning. He did not respond in a positive fashion.  Fucker is lucky he left. With his truck. I, at present, am not a woman to be messed with.

Insert evil laugh here as well as the smackings of rampant beef jerky ingesting.

Growl

To begin with, I have to wonder why the FedEx ad on this blog is en francais? My blog is not in french. Weird.

Okay, so be forewarned, I am cran-ky. I am about to say mean things about my family. It's not going to be pretty. Further to that, I'm going to blame it entirely on hormones and lack of sleep due to said hormones...

Got a laptop for Mother's Day.  If you follow me at all you may know this.  You may also then know I was over the moon about it.  Today the thrill died a little. Want to know why?

I went back to work yesterday after a lovely week off. I was away from work but spent a good deal of my 'holiday' doing laundry and housework in various forms. Then Sunday rolled around and being Mother's Day I didn't do an-y-thing as I believe that's what I'm entitled to on Mother's Day.

At about noon my husband took cards and a gift to his mother for Mother's Day. You know, cards I picked out and a gift I picked out.  But whatever, he went to visit her and this is fine.  Then just before 1 he brought home our three year old, whom he'd taken with him, and let fall asleep in the truck, to nap.  Well, said three year old did not nap.  He did watch a movie for awhile which allowed me a chance to doze off until Ryan phoned me at 2.  To say "I love you" you ask?  No, to ask what kind of fucking food to get for the dog. We've had the dog for six fucking years.  I don't know, get him a goddamn fruit tray and nachos for all I care.

Bottom line is, I had a 13 hour day yesterday complete with meeting a real life Barbie who looked at me as though I was Roseanne Barr live and in person.  She was 5'11" and dressed well, wearing heels, and is currently on 'the salmon diet' so she can get back down to 144 lbs. She's probably tipping the scales at a solid 148 right now.  Me too. Salmon and 'greens' are my favourite. And I'm definitely in and around the 145 mark.  Plus __.  I dare you to fill in the blank, fuckers.

So get home last night and fashion myself an afghan out of the dog hair covering the floor.  Just really enjoy the calvacade of clean and dirty dishes in the kitchen. Hey, did you guys do this just for me because I bet those darn pets got in on it and there's some vomit somewhere.  You shouldn't have.

Today I'm back in the office in the midst of several shitstorms and went home at lunch to conduct dog hair removal and general tidying that the dog could probably accomplish if had thumbs and an adequate diet.

In the midst of this blog my husband called me, unaware, and commented it's not like he doesn't do anything.  No sir, you do something all right.  In fact he'd dig up and replant the lawn of any one of his family members if they asked.  Or friend. He will go to the ends of the earth to help others.  I'm not knocking this, it's a great quality, but maybe, just maybe, Sir, let the helping begin at home.

And kids, look out, Mama's on the warpath and you little fockers are on the verge of losing your cell phones.

At this point, only the little boys and non-verbal members of my home are safe. Should you be concerned feel free to come get them.

I am going to eat the ass out of some salmon and greens tonight.

 

Rx: Fudgee-Os and Double-Stuffed Oreos

Yes boys and girls that dreaded time is upon me (and my household) once again.  I am a cranky bloated girl.  Luckily I am also enjoying a week off from work so the irritability level is ever so slightly down a notch.  Slightly.

Mostly I just want to lay on the couch in a caftan and stuff my face.  Then nap. With not being at work I have had serious naps the last two afternoons.  My poor six year old has not yet figured that mommy+movie in the afternoon= nap.  Or at the very least to keep a blanket away from me. Once I have the blanket I'm done.

Another bonus experience of being off work for this oh so joyful time of womanhood is I have worn sweatpants everyday this week. Earlier in the week I made the effort to wear jeans if I left the house.  Today, when I went to purchase said cookies, I not only wore my sweats but my hoodie which was covered in cat and dog hair from the couch and blanket at nap time.  Hot.

But I'm feeling somewhat satiated although more bloated as I just inhaled two Fudgee-Os, one Oreo and a glass of milk.  Some of you are scoffing right now as three cookies is really child's play.  What you may not have noted is the time.  It's not even 7 p.m. yet.  Silly children.  I will work my way through the rest of those cookies through the evening and probably partake of whatever's left for breakfast.

And then, just maybe, I'll twirl in slow motion...

If you don't get the twirling reference there is an awesome Kotex commercial out there right now...Google it and enjoy!

Exhibit 'B'

I am exhausted. Long day, again, at work. How does one cope with such stress...well in my current state one copes with this stress with the following:

1) Eating the rest of a 'Mr. Munchy' chocolate rabbit. Which, for the record, is a rip-off. Those things used to be much bigger. I could give a rat's ass if the kids of America are a bunch of obese little monsters now. I want an old school Easter Bunny where the ears are not the biggest part of the whole thing.

2) Inflicting 'Hurricane Angela' on the remainder of the Easter Bunny House. For those of you who don't know, an Easter Bunny House is much like a gingerbread house except it's made out of vanilla cookie and yummy yummy icing. 'Hurricane Angela' swept through there Monday and the roof was lost. Today another 'weather system' moved through and pretty much finished off the rest of the house.

3) Eating two or three mini eggs, a Reese bunny rabbit (very very small).

4) Washing it all down with a delicious glass of cold milk.

Now, stress eating has long been a pattern of mine, but this seems to be a little excessive even for me. I did not even consider eating any regular food for supper because if it's not chocolate, at present, I don't want it. If the taste is not going to be heightened by the addition of cold milk to my palate, I am not interested.

What I am, in fact, is bloated.

Hmmmm

I am starting to feel a tad edgy. Not sure if it's just fatigue or the day I had or the dreaded you-know-what....all I know is I have zero patience at present. I feel like lashing out irrationally. And literally growling....ah, but for a bat and something to smash.

Methinks she's on her way...

Update

Just shed some unnecessary unprovoked tears. Bring on the chocolate, salt and elastic waist pants.

The Resurrection of a Blog

I was recently asked why there hadn't been any further posts on this blog...I have questioned the same thing and tried to think of something of importance or entertainment to share with you last month. I couldn't come up with anything. Don't get me wrong, I most certainly had PMS. Just nothing extraordinary occurred. So this got me to thinking, with the way things have been over the past few weeks (months) I feel as though I am in a constant state of PMS.

However, there was a recent incident with cupcakes....I need you all to picture Vince Vaughn eating muffins in either the Wedding Crashers or Fred Claus. That's pretty much all that needs to be said. Except for the fact that Vince was not hiding from his two and six year old sons while attempting to eat whole cupcakes in rapid succession mere minutes before dinner. Nope, that would be me.

Work has been increasingly busy (and still as shitty) and I've often self-soothed with food in the past but not like this in recent memory. My lovely daughter made cupcakes last weekend and I believe it was Tuesday or Wednesday after work that I came home and turned on them like a crack addict on the rock. Again though, I have small children in my home and they have been told, repeatedly, they shall not have any treats before supper. So there I stood, in my professional wear, cramming chocolate cupcakes (2) into my mouth. Bellied up tight to the counter in hopes I would not be caught. And I wasn't. Surprisingly though, I did not have a big appetite for supper that evening...

Then there is the crying. I'm tearing up insanely easily and irrationally as of late. A mom singing on Ellen brought me to tears much to the amusement of both my adolescent (read: cold-hearted) children. And finally, last night in bed, I drove my husband to distraction (not in a good way) and then laughter as I tried to settle in. This is a common pattern of behaviour but during this particular time it becomes somewhat exaggerated. I cannot get comfortable for love or money and after much tossing and turning and foul language from my husband I burst into uncontrollable laughter followed by tears. For the record, I usually laugh so hard at myself that he can't help but join in, so not all is lost.

Let's see a show of hands for who's jealous of my husband?

Heh heh. That's what I thought.

January

I've decided to create a blog dedicated only to PMS. Why, you ask? Because mine is rampant and unpredictable and while in the throes of it I fail to see the humour but after all is said and done it's readily apparent.

This month brought immeasurable sadness and depression. What's funny about that? Nothing. What is funny is the actual number of cookies ingested over this past weekend. I baked over four dozen peanut butter chocolate chip cookies and I swear to God, ate 18 of them. Not in one sitting. I probably had half a dozen the night I baked them (Saturday) and then I had three or four (five) more after spin Sunday morning. That's right, I dragged my ass out in a bad ass blizzard to work out; to take part in the dreaded painful spin. It was an extra hard class. I had never taken a class from this instructor before and my hand to God, I will never do it again. So hard to breathe, chest pain in the extreme...I did it though because I don't want to get 'fat'. So logically, I came home and ate three (five) cookies with a big glass of milk. For breakfast.

And so the story went. I got my husband to buy pop Sunday night too because I needed it. It normally takes me two to three days to finish a 500 mL bottle of pop because it's not really my favourite. That night I chugged 'Cola' (we're on a budget) with reckless abandon and relished every moment of it.

I ate and ate and ate and ate some more. Contemplated the stunning drudgery and hopelessness of my life. Drank 4 litres of milk and licked the crumbs out of the cookie jar. Then 'it' was here and all was well with the world again. Well, maybe not all was well, but today I ate food that did not contain chocolate or sugar and survived. I even ate an orange (and a KitKat but that's not the point) .

Anyway, I'll keep you posted as to what fun next month will bring...stay tuned!