pre-menstrual syndrome. of course it’s real, you idiot.

I have been feeling a little *not myself* the past couple of days.  Laundry was getting behind.  I wasn’t cleaning like a merry maid.  I had no desire to cook anything really.  Those first two things are not unheard of around here, but the cooking thing?  I always love to cook.  Mostly.  Then this morning I woke up and wanted to go directly back to bed.  I know, I know… you’re all thinking this chick must be knocked up.

How may times do I have to tell you guys this? This baby shop is closed.  However, I do still have some working parts.  Sort of.  The ones that make you turn into a raging bitch and eat a vat of Nutella once a month…I still have those.  They are AWESOME.

I remember, back in the good ol’ days when I was young, I used to think people who “had PMS” were just huge drama queen fakers.  I didn’t have mood swings or headaches or bloating.  I didn’t lose my mind and inhale jelly donuts (which I don’t even like) just because they were there and looking at me.  Nope.  I just maintained my cute size six (or sometimes 8) self and ignorantly breezed my way through memses.  Glorious.

Then I got old and some things changed.  The average month is just a little crabbiness, run of the mill stuff.  But then there are freak weeks- weeks that I really wasn’t prepared for the hormone surges and haven’t been preparing myself mentally and emotionally.  These “sneakers” are usually the most damning hell weeks.  They come on like a freight train and destroy everything in their path.  While an average few days of PMS may cause some collateral damage and a few tears may be spilled for no real good reason, Sneaker Weeks are like Tsunamis of irrational emotions that swallow up every good thing that has ever sprouted and bloomed in my life.  They have the potential of destroying sanity.  Because I start wanting to kill people for just, you know, breathing in my vicinity.

Since I basically have to check myself into the halfway house for half-breed mutant serial killers a few days a month complete with stretchy pants and wire-free bras I’m somewhat of an authority on this subject.  Frankly, I’m scared of myself.   So I’ve decided to grace you with a few pointers should you ever be in the cross hairs of a crazed lunatic in the midst of a shark attack.  Print this out.  Tape it to your bathroom mirror.  Memorize it.  It could save your life one day.

1.  Don’t ask her if she’s “feeling okay” or say things like “you look tired.”  {No shit idiot asshole.  I look like shit and feel like someone set off an alka-seltzer bomb in my abdomen.  I can barely hold my eyes open and I know that this ache in my back is early onset back and leg cramps in addition to the normal cramps which will be debilitating within the next 72 hours.  Shut your mouth!}If you should accidentally let this slip out of your mouth, just back away slowly and tell her you’re running to the store really quick to get Cadbury Chocolate Eggs and Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles.  This will save your life. 

2.  Under NO circumstance ask her if she got that one thing done that you’ve been asking her to do.
Man/Woman up and get it done yourself.  She already feels like the biggest loser known to man.  Reminding her of her failures to accomplish anything productive in this trying time will just make her feel crappier.  You must just do it on your own.  If you don’t know how, just buy it.  Whatever it is.  Buy it and be happy about it.

3.  Do not eat noisily.  Chew with your mouth closed and try to limit the amount of saliva you produce so as to avoid the sound of squishing within your oral orifice.  Most people suffer mild cases of Hyperacusis (mouth sound sensitivity).  Add a surge of hormones and irrationality and you just might be wearing your fork as a piercing if you’re not careful.  If you really want to be safe, just let her know you’ll be picking up dinner tonight (and eat on your way home!) and would she like you to bring home ice cream, Twinkies or Lindt chocolates to go with the Triple Crunchy Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes smothered in Gravy?

4.  DON’T TOUCH HER.  Don’t decide that this is the day that you’re feeling needy and really need some cuddles.  You might as well just put her in a coffin and close the lid.  Nothing says claustrophobia like Shark Week and touching.  Just go in a closet and give yourself a big hug.  It will save your life, dammit.

5.  Don’t touch her stuff.  She spends her life loving, nurturing and taking care of people.  She has hardly anything that truly belongs to her.  She has to hide in the bathroom just to get some peace and quiet most days, and if there’s small children around not even that works.  She has three things in this house that actually belong to her.  Just don’t touch it.  JUST DON’T!

6.  This is possibly the most important safety tip.  If you have children, just remove them completely from the situation.  They are not smart enough to follow these rules, plus they just remind her that this hell wouldn’t even be going on if God hadn’t decided that women were to carry babies and Eve hadn’t done whatever the hell she did to make life for all women just a damn cluster-fuck of crap anyway.  Just send them away to play for a while and then ask Grandma to intervene and save their lives.  Grandmas understand, they once endured this hell and lived to tell about it.

This list is ever-changing and evolving.  This crap won’t even work next month so on second thought, don’t memorize this list.  Just mark the dates on your calendar and schedule a getaway when you need to.  Leave behind lots of salty snacks and chocolate and hope to God menopause passes soon and your life will be spared.

if you are a locksmith (or my husband) you might not want to read this.

It’s been a pretty eventful week here at the Impropers.  I’ve been a busy little bee getting shit done.  That’s what I do. GET SHIT DONE.

This morning, I was sitting here at my computer getting more shit done and the mister calls sounding very sheepish.  He says, “You’re going to kill me, but I need you to call a locksmith.  I locked the keys in the car and I have a meeting in an hour and it’s going to be pushing it.  I’m really sorry, babe.”

Now, you may be wondering what kind of ball-crushing wife I am for my husband to call me so tail-between-the-legs like for an honest to goodness mistake people make all the damn time.  Well, let me tell you why.

BECAUSE THE IDIOT DOES IT ALL THE DAMN TIME.  ALL the damn time.  I’m sorry for the screaming.  But, you guys, if you were in my head right now, you’d know some bolded capitalized letters here is the understatement of a lifetime.  My blood pressure is through the roof.

Again, you might be thinking, “Jeez, Kel.  Cool it.  It’s not that big of a deal.”  And you might be right.  IF- and hear me when I say if, please- IF I hadn’t also just locked the keys in the car this past weekend and had a little experience of my own.

You see, I took Elle to a birthday party at a skating rink about a half hour away on Sunday.  I hadn’t had lunch yet so I took her in and then went back to the car to eat in some peace and quiet.  When I got out of the car…blah blah blah. Locked out.

So, I called the man (the husband) and told him what an idiot I am and asked for some help.  He said, ask someone that works there for a wire hanger and then see if you can get someone to help you.  Fine, I will humiliate myself and do that.  I got the hanger.  Everyone who worked at said skating rink was 12.  There were two men at the rink.  One was 80 and one looked like he just got out of the federal pin for pretending to help a woman get the keys out of her car and then sticking her in his van and taking her across state lines for god only knows what.

So, I called the man again and said he was going to need to get his ass of the couch and COME HELP A BITCH OUT.  Which he did.  Along with his dad.  Which I am forever grateful for.  Thank you, dad.  NO THANK YOU, JIMMIE.

Fast forward to today, because this is where it gets goooood.  I maintained my decorum and was the nice wifey.  I called a locksmith.  He said he’d have someone call me right back.  Seven minutes lapsed and I called another locksmith.  Because we are on a time crunch for an important meeting.  That person was on their way before I even hung up the phone.  And they were $15 bucks cheaper.  They win.

While on the phone with hubby, first  locksmith finally calls.  I miss it.  I call back.  No answer.  I call back again.  No answer.

Phone rings 5 minutes later and some *ahem* not very good English speaking person (no problem there, except I couldn’t totally understand him.) starts YELLING at me.  “WHY YOU CALL SO MANY COMPANIES TO GET YOUR HUSBAND’S DOORS UNLOCKED LADY??”

I said, calmly, “Because the number I initially called did not call me back for over 10 minutes.  By the time you called me, someone else had already returned my call and was on the phone with my husband already almost there.  And don’t you ever call yelling at a potential customer.  I’m sorry for the inconvenience for you, but this is poor customer service and you are RUDE.”

He said, “Oohhhhh Drama Queen, huh?”

I said, “You haven’t begun to see drama queen you pathetic son of a bitch.  Go to hell.”  (Or something like that.  I don’t completely remember because I think I was in the middle of a stroke my blood pressure was so fucking high.”

Drama Queen?  You damn right you pansy ass little door unlocker.  And I have your phone number.  I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.

Whew.  Okay, I am okay.  I will not maim and destroy poor locksmiths.  I will not lose my shit.  I will not lose my shit. Peaceful Zen thoughts and Xanax to begin now.

Aaaannnnd I’m off to Walmart for a freaking magnetic hide-a-key thingy.  And our next car will have keyless entry.  And AAA.  And anything else that will get my idiot husband into his car without costing over fifty bucks a pop.

Pass the Tylenol.