Weekend regurgitation: If you’re looking for karma, you might find her copping a squat in an end zone

I’m a little cranky.

I woke up this morning, walked into the kitchen and was greeted with a loud GOOD MORNING! WHAT’S FOR BREAKFAST? by a mountain of dirty pots and pans in my sink, the same pots and pans Nate used yesterday to cook the chili he’s taking to the tailgate party today.

Apparently, when you cook a meal, you don’t have to clean up after it.

But only if you own testicles.

However, the Buffalo Bills are playing today and if their record is any indication, the scoreboard will take care of any desire I may have for retribution. Probably by halftime.

Just in case you’re wondering, nope. No PMS around here. Why do you ask? What are you implying? FOR GOD’S SAKE, STAND STILL SO I CAN SMACK YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH A CUISINART.

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PMS: Pretty Much Screwed
(originally posted on October 12, 2009)

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It’s approaching mid-October, time for another episode of Emotions Gone Wild which airs monthly and features my emotions jumping hurdles the size of Mt. Everest at a speed of Mach 10. Time for my good judgment to hang by an exceedingly frayed noose. Time for Nate to wise up, give me a wide birth and not blink too loudly unless he actually enjoys the sensation of having his testicles ripped off and super glued to his neck.

I should avoid making major decisions during these episodes because otherwise, it’s entirely possible that my next blog post will be from my car, having suddenly found myself homeless after painting my house neon fuchsia pink and selling it cheap to the Mormons who knocked on the front door earlier, all because they were dressed neatly, gave me cookies and promised to put in a good word for me with The Big Guy.

I could swear, quite loudly for that matter, to the physical manifestations of PMS because once a month for years on end, my stomach would become so distended so as to enter a room a full ten seconds before dragging the rest of me in after it like a sack of gravity. But I never subscribed to the theory of emotional PMS. Becoming so overwrought to the point of choking the life out of the hostess because someone scarfed up the last M&M at bunco? Not likely. Essentially, my thoughts on the subject were more along the lines of, life goes on in all its bloated glory, ladies. SUCK IT UP AND DEAL.

Then I hit forty and threatened to disembowel my husband after he switched The Real Housewives of New York to Man vs. Wild.

Even then, I was still skeptical. I mean, it’s not like I would have really used the hatchet. I have the arm strength of Gumby so it was all I could do to wave it back and forth a few times before dropping it to the ground and unwittingly slicing off his little toe.

But then I started to notice other things, like how I’d become so emotionally vested in the sucky life of the curly haired guy in the freecreditreport.com commercials. I even wrote a letter to his mother and demanded to know how she could abandon her own flesh and blood and let him drive around in a Gremlin?

Or how I’d burst into tears whenever it was cloudy or the dryer buzzed or a squirrel ran across our driveway in search of a nut or we ran out of spaghetti.

Or how quickly I’d get miffed because, after trekking through sleet and slush ten feet to return my shopping cart, the employee who was busy gathering up the rest of the 547 shopping carts strewn across a parking lot the size of a football field didn’t immediately rush right over to shake my hand and pin a medal on my chest.

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(pissing) Who the hell does he think he is, the miserable little shit?

(moaning) He doesn’t like me. That’s it.

(complaining) He hates me.

(sobbing) *sniff* He thinks I’m ugly.  *sniff*  Oh my God, I’m ugly. I’m horrid.  *sniff*  I’m an abomination. Shoot me and put everyone out of their misery.

(wailing) God, why are humans so mean? Why is life so miserably hard?

(wailing louder) Why do people … oh!

(beaming) Hi! Oh, it was no problem! Easy peasy! You’ve very welcome!

(sobbing) *sniff*  He is so sweet. Just the nicest thing.  *sniff*  His mom would be so proud. Zoe should date him.

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It was only when I tackled Nate in the kitchen and sat on his head while shrieking I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! I AM A HUMAN BEING because he greeted me at the door with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, that I knew PMS was not a condition invented long ago by men who needed a reason to get out of the house or by women who needed a reason to get out of sex.

And after I had a psychotic break on I490 whereupon I slammed on the brakes, screeched over to the shoulder and used my eyebrow tweezers to dismantle my Honda piece by piece, thereby ensuring that never again would I have to sit through John Tesh offering me intelligence for my life through my car radio, I knew in my heart that for the remainder of my natural life, I was going to have to put aside three or four days a month and not interact with humans or operate heavy machinery or motor vehicles.

I’m hoping to be back to normal by tomorrow. I’m sure Nate and the girls are as well. I’d ask them but last I knew, they were busy hiding in the basement and taking quiet, shallow breaths.

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