I Shoulda Stayed Home

I don’t hear my monthly train a-comin’… it’s roarin’ right on top of me.

PMS, that fickle bitch, has struck. I was doing well, you know. Really. I thought I was in a good mood. A bike ride yesterday, was there for my guy when he needed it, had some time this morning to myself, and then things slowly went downhill.

I wrote something about PMS last month and just went back to see what I’d said. Now, normally, I’d never have the balls to quote myself. I try not to. It’s bad form, you see. But this one passage describes the day/night I began to have around 3:00, so I’ll save myself the work — since I’m still a bit on this side of Bitch — and break the “good” form and quote myself. Sue me. It’s my blog, and I’ll be a pompous cunt if I wanna. Deal.

It’s usually not until you’re half-way through the ever-increasing darkening that you remember: It’s that fucking time of the month again. It’s your early warning system for the red tide, and the villagers better get the fuck out of the way.

Women despise PMS. Women loathe the emotional charges that come from being victims of estrogen. We wish for days of smoother sailing, when everything would be a little less turbulent. Some days there’s just nothing a gal can do but wait to ride out the storm.

You guys think it sucks? Try riding the wave from inside the barrel sometimes, boys. You ain’t fucking woman enough to deal with half the head games brought on by that fickle bitch named Estrogen.

You know what set me off? Well, first of all, the fuckwits on the roads. See, I drive a scooter. (Think Japanese Vespa knock-off. Cracker’s song “Eurotrash Girl” is my theme, baby.) If you’re a driver and those two-wheeled contraption things are next to invisible to you, can you please, for the fucking love of all things holy, learn to look around you as you drive? Sigh. I love my scooter, I hate other drivers. It’s a bitch.

But then… it happened. The pissy, bitchy, diva hairdresser moment. I go to this guy who’s cut hair for all manner of Hollywood stars here in Vancouver, and he’s considered pretty hot shit. He likes me. Thinks I’m cute and funny and totally irreverent. I make a point of saying at least three or four terribly inappropriate things per session, and always bribe him with delish recipes, since he’s a diabetic foodie who just can’t get enough. And he gives me an insane deal. But he’s a real fucking prima donna.

Today, he went into rant mode. I rant, but I’m funny about it. Or, I try to be. Nothing cheers me up better than making someone laugh, so that’s what I do when bitchy (usually) — something I have in common with Mark Twain, who had a quote to that effect. He — let’s call him the Queen, since like most good hairdressers, he’s as queer as a three-dollar bill, like my dad would say, but in this instance, I mean it in a superior and arrogant kind of classist way — is so fucking negative and whiney and moany when he’s down. He slams people, says vicious things. Sigh.

Most of the time, I like him. Today, he was in serious danger. Scissors are sharp, and as the Guy will tell you, I am a very, very strong girl. I wanted to go fucking medieval on the Queen’s ass.

I repeat, there is a reason PMS has been cited as justifiable defense for homicide. And I’m well-read. I know this shit. I coulda gotten away with it. “But I was paying him ridiculous amounts to cut my hair in a way I’m not wild about, and he bitched the whole way through! I grabbed those fucking shears from his pudgy hands, and turned his neck into a sieve!”

There’s a testimony you want ring-side seats for, my friends.

Add to it the fact that he said I could come 15 minutes early and get me started, yet didn’t start me until 10 minutes after the original appointment time, and the stupid high-maintenance wench who couldn’t pick out a hair product in less than seven minutes with his supervision, and I was gonna pop an eye-vessel, man.

Then, I had to get food for me and the Guy. I’d already had the underwhelming experience of ordering what Subway THINKS is a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich. (Fuck, that sandwich ain’t even in the state of Pennsylvania, let alone Philly!) The Chinese place I went to for their awesome Ginger Beef has this horrendous layout. The best seat takes about a minute or two to go around the counter to, etc. There were two people in the place, and naturally, they sat as far from the counter as possible. The food kept coming out 30 seconds apart, but instead of the woman selling me mine and getting me the fuck out of there, she’d drop what she was doing, take the food out, come back, start ringing me in again, and presto. Another dish. “Oh, I must do this. A minute, no more!”

“Fucking hell.” A 2-minute stop turned into 15.

Then, I get to the Guy’s house, and all was good — or so I thought. I gave him the new ankle brace he desperately wanted, and that I had no problem taking the time out to go get, although I had to go to two shops to get it. He was putting it on and it seemed he was having difficulty, so naturally I made a comment. He snapped at me to let him do it. Well, that was it. My grumpy afternoon came crashing down, and instead of what I thought would start out all fluffy and groovy and sappy and kissy, with him being thrilled and grateful and all, turned into him seeming to be bitchier than I was.

But it turns out he’s one of these guys who can snap, apologize and actually mean it, and have the mood utterly dissipate then and there. Honestly, if I’d been having the kind of week he’d been having, I’d likely have snapped, too.

Unfortunately for him, though, my train was roarin’ past, and it just crumpled me. I put our food together, and as much as I wanted to shake my mood, I just couldn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. He was great about it, but a lot of fucking good that does, y’know?

His timing for snapping sucked, really, and that’s inarguable. One of those, “It’s out there — you can’t take it back!” things that get really annoying when both parties start wishing for a do-over. Throw a little PMS in the mix? Oi!

PMS. It is what it is: A reason to stay home and out of other people’s faces, most times. But I never saw it coming this time. I was happy, enjoying my day, and whammo, like a bus through a red light — whomp, there it is. “You, DOWN. And STAY DOWN,” sums it up rather nicely, honestly.

Fortunately, the Guy and I had a decent time. Nothing quite as nice as we’ve had before this, but hey. It happens. And I opened the toothbrush. And he has my robe there now. And we’ve had a snapping. Wow. It must be a relationship or something. It still rocks. PMS sucks, but it still rocks. I think. [Insert PMS-driven paranoia here.]

Now, a bath. Sanity. Sleep. In that order, too.