Linkity-Blink

I'm fucking lazy and apologize for the lame title.  Something stinks in my house right now but neither my husband or son will confess. Likely out of fear.

Check me out at Driven.

Now!

My Chassis is Chapped

The title really has nothing to do with this post but I actually uttered this exact phrase earlier and couldn't leave it there.

So here we go again...I clued in to the upcoming festivities after I nearly wrestled a burger from my son yesterday.  It was quite a strong hint because never ever have I coveted a burger before.  I couldn't stop looking at it.  The smell was intoxicating.  And I generally can take or leave a burger.  Yesterday though, I would've traded my first born for that delicious Burger King sandwich.

Then today I experienced mood swings like no other.  I've always been a little prone to the odd mood swing.  Those of you who know me will not believe this, but yes, yes, it's true.  I can be a little up and down.  On top of that I'm not sleeping well this week and I am so bloated that even if I didn't love an elastic-waisted pant I would have no choice but to wear one anyway.

Point is: I'm hot.

I left my husband a special incoherent message on his cell phone today.  I couldn't reach him due to some charging issue with his phone.  This was driving me beyond any point of rational thought and to top it off I hit my head on my vehicle while I was getting out and I had my sunglasses on my head because for some reason I think I'm fucking Malibu Barbie, and friends, if you didn't know, it really hurts when you hit your head on something and your sunglasses cut into your head.

This prompted me to shout "Fuck!", throw my sunglasses and then yell at my two teen aged children who were with me to "Just go".  We were in the mall parking lot.  What did they do to incur some of my pre-menopausal wrath?   They were smirking.  They were smirking in unison.  Most of their lives is spent strongly disliking one another but at that very point in time, they were unified in their amusement at my crazy ass antics.  And whilst hormonal?  This does not please Mama.

And all of this took place without me realizing I had failed to hang up the phone after trying to call Ryan for the sixth time today to see if he could pick up the little boys from daycare. 

Psychotic.

So I caught up to the kids in the mall, basically refused to talk to them and we went our separate ways.  After a brief bit of shopping we decided to get some cookies.  We went to Cookies By George and bought 8 cookies, a bottle of water and two 500 ml cartons of milk, one white and one chocolate.  The nice Asian man was very polite while serving us.  As we walked away to our table I couldn't help but wonder what he thought of this woman and her children.  Eight cookies in a take out bag but did we take them out? No.  We found a table and ate six of the cookies right then and there.  The other two were for the little boys.  We ate our cookies and drank our milk and carried on.

And guess what?  Apparently cookies and milk is some sort of happiness elixir for a premenopausal Mama and her at times, difficult and annoying, teenagers.  We left the mall parking lot about twenty minutes later full of giggles wholeheartedly singing along to "Forget You" by Cee-Lo.

More shopping ensued, as well as a trip to Wendy's.  None of these choices are helping with the bloat and I currently feel like and resemble a woman with child.  Just early on, you know maybe three to four months. 

Dead sexy.

And now it's time for bed.  Where I will no doubt have zero difficulty falling asleep but will dream absurd dreams the entire night and toss and turn and wake up all the bitchier tomorrow morning. 

Who am I kidding?  Before bed there will be chocolate and more milk.  Apparently this month's poison is burgers, chocolate and milk.  Times like these I'd give anything to be a man.  If you have an itch, you scratch it.  If it needs adjusting, you adjust it.  Never ever does having a penis mean at some point in your life you will be miserable just because you have one.  It will not cause bloating.  Or mood swings.  In fact, from what I can tell, and remember I have a husband (my second one at that) and three boys; what I know is from firsthand observation and penises seems to be a pretty consistent source of amusement, pride and good feelings.

Fuck it.

Got Milk?

No, I'm not Pregnant

Confused?  I chose this as my title because it's been at least two months, if not more, since I posted here.   And no it's not because I have stopped experiencing PMS, it's just that I couldn't find anything very funny about it.  It's also due to my continued daftness about the whole thing.  It's not until it's painfully obvious that I realize the rage and incessant stuffing of my face are connected with something other than my generally sparkling personality.

For example, I was lucky enough to ring in 2011 with Mother Nature's greatest gift to us gals there is.  Which meant that Christmas was more than its usual free for all food extravaganza.  I ingested mass quantities of food.  Turkey, turkey and more turkey.  And pop. And candy.  So much delicious candy. Turkey buns soaked with butter.  White buns, no less.  Also, I was extremely bitchy between Christmas and New Year's. One day in particular I preferred it if no one spoke to me at all.  Doesn't that sound festive?

My annual New Year's Day hangover was blessed with a headache.  This is not terribly unusual, I know, but for me it is.  Normally I'm a nauseous Norma.  Instead I prayed my eyeball would not expose and nothing would crawl out of the actual eye socket.  I am blaming this on Mother Nature as well.

She's like the Mother of all Mothers to blame for one's issues.  I am currently choosing not to weigh myself but when I do, it's likely going to reflect my Christmas/PMS binge and I will blame her for that too.  Not my complete and total lack of self control or sugar addiction.  Nope, never.  If I wouldn't have been coming up to this blessed event I bet I would've snacked only on fresh vegetables and hummus.  And drank only water and ate grilled chicken with half a piece of dry brown toast.  Every day.  Sweet tooth be damned.  I would've quelled it with a delicious Christmas orange.  Mother Nature fucked that all up and now I'm afraid to put my jeans on today.  They'll be uncomfortable.  Although I do believe I have a pair I haven't washed yet that will be a little more forgiving.

Don't judge me in my comfortable dirty jeans.  It's not my fault, it's Hers.

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.