Sausage Links & A Mu Mu

Sometimes I think it would just be better if there was a place I could go when I am PMSing.  A place where the accepted wardrobe is a mu mu.  A place where both sweet and salty snacks were at the ready.   A place without judgement, a place without husbands and children.  Don't get me wrong, I'm merely thinking of them.  This last bout was particularly rough and I am not meant to parent in an appropriate fashion while bloated up like Elvis in his last days but with the demeanor of Attila the Hun.

Patience is limited in my world at the best of times but throw some raging hormones into the mix and it gets downright ugly.  My son fell asleep on the couch the other night.  My husband took him to bed and then when I went to say good night to him he was awake and adamant that he brush his teeth.  Instead of being pleased with his desire to practise good personal hygiene despite utter exhaustion, I practically threw a tantrum.  I just wanted him to go to sleep.  So finally I barked: "Fine, go brush your teeth!"  in a manner one might tell their child to have another cookie or stay up an extra 15 minutes.

Did I mention I become entirely irrational as well?

And this time around I was treated to a level of bloating previously unmatched.  Even my stretchy pants were uncomfortable.  Granted they were my 'dressy' stretch pants and not my actual sweat pants but good Lord.  It was too much.  I literally could have passed as a good five months pregnant yesterday.  So off I went to parent teacher interviews in elastic waisted pants and a sweatshirt.  Thank God my children are good students and so, I hope, I can get away with a little more.  Jeans or any pants that had an actual button and fly were out of the question.  Not unless I wanted to be in pain the entire time and resemble link sausage.

Joy of joy though, I found peanut butter cups in my van two mornings ago.  I snuck them into the house with my three year old seeing and squirreled them away into a cupboard and snacked on them through the day.  The same evening I ate a Snickers bar and half a KitKat.  Yesterday I had a Skor latte and four Fudgee-Os.

I will not be weighing myself until sometime in the middle of next week and hopefully a good bout of the stomach flu.

Every month brings something different.  Mother Nature is sweet in that way.  Never wanting us, or me anyway, to get bored or be prepared for the onslaught of physical and emotional discomforts coming our way for a good week of every month.  I know my family appreciates it as well. 

For now though, it's off to the showers I go and then hopefully, fingers crossed, into a pair of honest to goodness pants.  Is there enough stretch?  We shall see.

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".