Category Archives: PMS

Of Rainy Days, Write Nights, And Kissing Boys

Oh! The rain is pounding the streets as car tires slap-slap-slap their way over the busy streets near my home. I’ve hit bottom on my coffee mug and should be zapping to the door, but first need to get the funk out with a long hot shower.

I’m bussing in the downpour. Tonight I’ll come home armed with a bottle of wine. I’m sequestering myself for some writing. I like to bottle it up sometimes, like sexual tension. When you don’t write for a while, it comes a little harder, a little faster, a little more furious, sometimes longer. I’m getting to that bursting point.

The great dead Canuck writer Robertson Davies once uttered that a writer ought not write until the thought of not writing becomes unbearable. I give in so much to the want to write that I seldom know the fit-to-burst waiting-for-it sensation. And like with sex, a little deprivation can go a long, long ways to making things fun again.

But I know the writing desire will hit before I return home this evening. I can feel it percolating.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’ll write worth a shit. It could all be recycled pretentious crap. But I’d rather hope for the best.

Whatever to write on, though? I’m torn between the right-wing idiots who’ve been writing on my blog of late, or matters of lust and longing that have begun to appear in my life. I’m leaning toward the matters of the heart, though, as we’ve all probably been getting our fill of politics of late. After all, I still haven’t told you about the fantastic makeout session I had just before my back gave out on me. Literally RIGHT before. Talk about the agony and the ecstasy. Love me a great makeout session. Three hours on the floor, well.

Speaking of which, to say I’m keen to see this boy again is a bit of an understatement. Perhaps the word “riled” might be more befitting. I had dirty notions that such an encounter might come my way this weekend, now that my back’s healing. What happens then? I get my period last night, a few days early. Talk about getting a red flag on the play(ing). God.

Ah well. Yes, working for a living is a foolish, foolish thing. If ever a girl deserved to be independently wealthy and work-free, this would be she. I could blog to my heart’s content. And putter about my home. And make boys call in sick to work to while away a dirty, dirty day.

But. Sadly I’m a working girl, and this girl’s finally going to scrub up and get out the door to the office. Tonight, a write night. I love a Friday night write night with good wine. Of the simple “me” things that keep my life mine, it’s one of my favourites.

For Christ’s Sake, Stop the Bleeding!

As you may or may not know, I’ve been trying to change / suppress my menstrual cycle through the use of prolonged exposure to the Pill. Unfortunately, it’s not going as well as I would have hoped.

For those who haven’t been exposed to what “period suppression” entails, it’s basically the choice to use birth control pills for 12 weeks, then you take a week off. There’s a new one coming out called Seasonale, but I don’t know how that differs from just staying on any old pill, and I doubt the additional hype is really necessary, since I suspect they’re just playing on the ignorance of the public… as most marketers like to do. One can simply take their pill of choice uninterrupted for 12 weeks and achieve the same end. (Now, don’t be a moron and do this shit without medical supervision, all right? Get approval from your doctor, talk to them about what to look for, then go bravely forth, young bleeder. Now your shit before you act; don’t listen to me or some other person who has no medical training and knows fuck all about the big picture.)

I’ve been on the pill, now, for 9.5 out of my new “12-week” cycle. I’ve already had a full-blown, long period that began 2 weeks ago and lasted 8 days, and today I’ve gotten it again. In between, I was still spotting. So, maybe I’m the odd the one out. Maybe I’m the freak who can’t adjust to the hormonal change. I don’t know. All I do know is, this really blows.

I did, however, ask the Good Doctor about it and he said it’s just my endometirum rebelling. Yeah, well, I wanna get fucking medieval on its ass and quash its little rebellion.

I mean, if I was in a sexually active relationship, this would be really fucking annoying. Fortunately, it’s just me and Fingie these days, so we have an understanding and things are going smoothly, no feelings are hurt, but still. Biology blows, man. I thought so in high school and I still think so now. This fucking ranks up there with dissecting frogs, for god’s sake.

I wanted to cycle to work today, but now I feel like shit, so yet another day is passing without exercise. In retrospect, 2.5 cups of coffee was a bad plan, since coffee really fucks with cramping, but at least I’m awake.

I took my first anti-depressant pill last night, and that was weird. It’s supposed to double as a sleep-aid, so you take it before bed.I had only a half a pill as you’re supposed to start slow to minimize the onset of side effects. Still, it conked me right out. I vaguely remember getting out of bed to go to the washroom, as I’m one of those people, and I staggered there with my head bent down, and slammed into the door jamb. My first reaction was, “Not another fucking concussion,” (I’ve had three) as I stumbled backwards, my head smarting, leaving me feeling like I’d suffered a cartoon injury, with the pain lines radiating out into the darkness.

Naturally, I woke up this morning in a fog. I really hope this isn’t an indicator of what’s to come, because now that I’m on these pills, I’m supposed to remain on them for the next year. That’s just the rule of thumb. (Where in the hell did the saying “rule of thumb” come from, anyhow? Ever wonder? I mean, having opposable thumbs is one of the highlights of my life, to be sure, but I don’t expect my thumb to be the sovereign entity of my life, so I don’t really see it ruling, but perhaps my ignorance is impeding my ability to comprehend this. Hmm.)

The Ugly Cry

Oprah has coined a phrase I had to throw out yesterday, The Ugly Cry.

Almost every man who has been in any relationship of any consequence with any woman has, tragically, witnessed the Ugly Cry firsthand.

It ain’t pretty, man. That’s why it’s called ugly.

You know the cry I  (/Oprah) mean (/s). Just plain ol’ u-g-l-y. Tears streaming, lips quivering, slobber potential in between monster gasps of woe. You might as well just scream, “I have estrogen! Hear my whine!”

Oh, we hate the Ugly Cry. You guys have no idea. Oh, my GOD. The times we turn around later and go, “What the fuck is wrong with me?’ I’m three sobs away from needing an industrial hanky, but zero sobs away from a complete loss of pride? How wrong is this? Where in the hell is my brain? Is there no override button for this shit? My god, someone get me a penis!

Almost every chick’s done this thing. It comes up at the stupidest times. Every time we try to get a grasp, we realize again, “Oh, I’m such a loser! Ugly-crying!” and on with the waterworks and gulpfest. Afterwards, it’s just a humiliating realization that, “yes, I really, really am that weak.”

Oh, sure, let’s call it some euphemistic maxim, like, “in touch with my emotions.” Sure, that almost makes me feel like something less of a fraud, but no, not quite. Normally, I try to repress my emotions. I don’t want to be in touch with them, and shit, man I turn down every collect call they throw at me. I’m more the type where I just shuffle around and grunt a little, in between resentfully scouring dishes or meaninglessly shifting things around into less offensive patterns on the counter. I think about things, develop great reasoning for my emotions, what have you, and then, I open my fucking mouth.

“But what I felt…” [honk] [sob] [wheeze] [sob] “was that what you were saying…” [sob] [whine] [sniff] [snuffle] [snort]

Yada-fucking-yada. Like any of it matters.

By the end of it, we’re so ashamed with our all-out girliness in this crazy-ass world of men that we soften or completely bristle, and either way, things don’t progress as they should. You can almost start to understand why those old sexist commercials of the ‘50s had the men doing all the negotiating for big purchases.

“Now, honey, you just let me take care of the big, bad negotiator. You just rest your pretty head.”

And what’s really lame is this ability for absolute stoicism through much of life’s challenges, but then the lips part for some person with whom I wanna talk on a deeper level, where I’m just being honest, and whomp! There it is.

The Ugly Cry.

I know that my “Ugly Cry” tends to come out most often when I’m upset about something with someone I genuinely care about, someone with whom I’ve got an issue but with whom also I feel a pretty solid connection with. It doesn’t make it any easier, it still is something that’s been hurting enough to produce that reaction, or it’s one of those moments where we feel safe enough to really let ALL of our shit go.

I had an Ugly Cry like that last week, and ALL the shit I’d been feeling all rolled into one bad session of expressing how I felt. Man, it got heavy ‘cos I just couldn’t shake the Ugly Cry. There it loomed, on my shoulder, the entire fucking night. I felt like such a loser. I couldn’t get it together, and then I’d feel more frustrated about my lack of control, and off I’d go again.

You know, I think the Ugly Cry sometimes is actually that negative-but-positive sign about the relationship’s strengths sometimes. As chicks, we get so overwhelmed by grumpy guys in our presence and we think (like you) that it’s our job to fix it somehow, by being cute or nice or sweet, and sure enough, it backfires. What we either forget or just fail to realize is that guys being grumpy with us is a sign of how comfortable they feel around us, a sign of trust. It just really doesn’t feel that way when it’s going down. Usually tends to be a 20/20 hindsight reckoning, if anything.

And the Ugly Cry is sort of the same. A chick won’t go Ugly in front of someone she doesn’t trust, really.

Next time you boys are sitting there face-to-face with an Ugly Cry, just keep it together and remember, it’s a sign that she trusts you.

Just like a seagull shitting on you means luck, it’s all good, boys.