It is no big secret that the fastest way to get yourself killed is to suggest to a frustrated woman that the root cause of her pissyness is not, as she believes, a legitimate screw up on your part. But rather, a hormonal hallucination caused by a raging case of PMS.
Especially if you are a man. And extra specially if you are right.
The Golightly family is inordinately blessed in this regard. Because, despite the fact that M becomes mind-blowingly annoying, heartbreakingly insensitive, painfully slow, and somehow manages to expand his person to generally be In. My. Space. for a few days every month, he has never once suggested that I take a half a bottle of Midol and go chill the hell out.
Lucky for us both, no?
You have to feel a little sorry for the guy. I’m so all over the board with this stuff. And it didn’t appear until later in our marriage when we gleefully flushed my birth control pills in favor of starting a family. The first few months we were in baby bliss. Me, thinking about babies. Him, working on making one. So when the fog wore off, he was probably totally blindsided. And even now, three years later, it’s not every month that I turn into a psychopath. So basically, I’m like a one woman Spanish Inquisition. Even I don’t know when to expect it.
The nice thing is, even though M is NEVER allowed to suggest that I go check the calendar, I have started to pick up on the cues. Jeans too tight? Check. Think it might be a good idea to bake a box of brownies for breakfast? Check. Acting like Tonya Harding with a hangover? Check.
This last week seems like it was particularly bad. I haven’t even wanted to be in the same room with myself. Thursday night our fancy dinner and Christmas shopping didn’t go as planned. Dinner was great. The red wine exceptional. But about half way into our second bottle of Napa Valley happiness, M announced that he really had no desire to go look at sparkly things. The rational part of my person agreed. I was a little to tips anyway, and it would be fun to go downtown and hook up with some friends of ours who were out dancing. I stayed with that rational line of thinking for about an hour and a half. And then a switch flipped and I was pissed. In fact, I think I was pissed until yesterday. WTF? I’m pretty sure that I even used our own child against him on Friday just because I was still in my funk.
Not that my basic premise wasn’t legit. He does, sometimes, get so caught up in work that he refuses to do anything that could conceivably inconvenience anyone…except his daughter. And Friday’s near blow off of her school Thanksgiving Luncheon was an example of this. But, in fairness, he was in the midst of putting out a pretty major fire. And I can see how it would have been hard at that point to see any other options beyond sitting at his desk on the phone and giving himself an ulcer. So, perhaps my hissy fit and refusal to answer my cell phone were over the top. But then again, ok in the long run. I mean, he did show up and have lunch with Sweet Pea – who about came out of her skin with excitement when he showed up. And I did apologize. And I did go check the calendar. And we did have a nice weekend without incident. Well, major incident. I suppose he might not term the weekend, “nice.” Perhaps, not un-nice? I’d ask, but that would mean admitting to the PMS. And that, ladies, is where we need to preserve a little mystery.
Just put it in your blog where he can read all about it and know that you know when you’re being evil.
Tired and crampy