“More Than Cheese and Beer” hosts Sunday Confessions each week and this week’s topic is “Lessons.”
Since I’m always late to the party (in life and to Sunday Confessions) I figured I’d surprise everyone and get mine up now. Plus, I’m wicked busy this weekend so I’m sure I would have forgotten to post. Anywho, without further ado, here is my post on “Lessons.” A little something for the guys to chew on next time we get snippy. Enjoy!
— I never really know I am suffering from PMS until either I’m sobbing in my car from having heard an especially moving Journey song and blowing my nose into Starbucks napkins from my glovebox, ready to drive into oncoming traffic when suddenly it hits me that it’s that time of the month OR someone calls me out on it. God bless the poor fool who does the latter. Especially if that person is a guy.
The first time my friend and co-worker, Bret had the displeasure of meeting PMS Tracy, I must have overreacted about something entirely unnecessarily and he said quietly, “Umm….you seem….a little umm…”
“I SEEM A LITTLE WHAT BRET?!? A LITTLE WHAT?!”
“Well umm… you don’t seem like yourself…do you, err… are you maybe experiencing a little premenstral-“
Before he could finish, I roared, “OH! So you think I have PMS? Is that it? I can’t just maybe be stressed out or in a bad mood? I MUST be some estrogen-driven crazy person just because I’m not HAPPY every minute of the day??”
I looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. When he opened his mouth to give me one, I didn’t let him talk. “Ohhhhhh…..I get it. I have to be cheery and full of sunshine and butterflies ALLLL the time or else I must be getting my period. Is that it? Huh. I see. So every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, should I assume you have a low sperm count? Something’s wrong with your dick, huh? That’s why YOU get moody? I bet, huh. I bet. You can’t get your dick up or something and you’re projecting that on me!!! Well I’ll tell you one thing, BRET, maybe in the PAST women you know can BLAME their bad mood on their period, but not me. I don’t GET PMS DO YOU HEAR ME!! And I’ll prove it to you!!!”
As Bret glanced around, slithering toward the door searching for an escape route, I jumped up in a rage, knocking my chair and an innocent cup of coffee over in one angry swoop. Reaching for my purse, I pulled out my birth control pill pack. Waving it in the air, my lips curled over fangs that appeared every 28 days. Snarling, and my voice rising, “And here! I produce evidence to YOU, my limp-dicked friend, that NOT every woman’s bad mood can be so EASILY explained by her STUPID PERIOD!!!!” Pointing at the pack, I yelled, “Clearly, I’m not even at the white pills yet so you can take your PMS and shove it up your-”
Ooops. At second glance, I indeed had reached the white pills and indeed was clearly about to get my period. Ashamed but too proud to admit it, I trailed off, stuffing the pack back into my purse. ”…..So, you see….I don’t have PMS and I’m not on the white pills so, yes. That is all.” I took a deep breath. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked calmly.
“Um….nope. No. I think that’s all! Thanks, Tracy!” Bret said in a shaky false-cheery voice as he slinked out of my office.
Bret and I have worked together and been friends for the better part of a decade. By now, he knows my biological clock better than I do. Now, when he comes into my office and I start acting crazy, he just says, “Oh…whites, huh?” and turns back around the way he came.
Usually my outbursts aren’t that manic. Usually when I have PMS I’ll stub my toe or something and start crying that somebody put that couch there intentionally just to hurt me. But this time, I was having an especially tough day and I found out that the guy I had been talking to long-distance was sleeping with someone else. Fighting tears, I called Bret. “Listen. I have a box of Girl Scout cookies in the car packaged up to send to that fucker. What’s going to happen next is this. Are you LISTENING to me?” I yelled.
“Yes, yes, I’m listening,” Bret said.
“Good,” I responded. Slowly, and quietly I started, “I’m going to go pee.” I paused for effect. “Then I’m going to go out to my car. I’m going to get that box of cookies I was going to send to that motherfucker. Then, I’m going to rip up that nice card I wrote to him into a million pieces, and I’m going to piss on it. Then, you and I are going to eat that box of cookies. I’m not leaving here until that entire box of cookies is gone. I suggest you be here in my office when that happens. Are. We. Clear.”
“Well. You might not want to go pee first.”
“What?” My voice rising, “Now is NOT the time to pick on me about how much I pee. I know I pee a lot! I have a tiny bladder!!!”
“No, no, I just mean…then you’ll have nothing left to piss on the card with.”
“Right. Good point. See you in five.” Click.
A few minutes later, Bret walked in and I warn you that what I’m about to tell you isn’t pretty or intended for the weak. I looked up, waving him to come in and pointed at the door, motioning for him to shut it. I angrily grabbed a pair of scissors off my desk and slashed the bubble envelope that I had packaged the cookies and the card in. I shredded it into smitherines and then flung those pieces into the trash, some fluttering to the floor. I didn’t bother picking them up. Somehow it seemed poetic to leave some on the ground, unworthy of the trash.
I then turned my attention to the box of Samoas. Tearing into the cardboard, I pulled the package of cookies out and ripped off the cellophane. A drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and I realized as the chocolate goo dripped from my fingers that I hadn’t accounted for the fact that I had left the cookies out in my car in the beating sun and they had all turned into melted messes.
This would not stop me. This mission was to be executed. As I fished a spoon out of my desk drawer and scooped one melty, gooey, sad, fallen, wounded soldier Samoa out of the plastic container and lifted it to my tear stained face, I realized that my PMS had beaten me. It had beaten me to a chocolaty, crying, emotional pulp. And I didn’t care. As the messy cookie disaster smeared its way all over my desk, my sleeves, my face, I mumbled with a full mouth, “Have one….” pushing the tray of melted chocolate to Bret. “Why, Bret?” I asked. “Why are guys such fucking dickface assholes sometimes?” as I spooned another cookie into my mouth.
“I don’t know,” he responded. Good answer.
“I’ll probably gain ten pounds from these cookies!!” I cried. “See, it’s like…it’s like he WANTS me to be fat!!! FUCKER!!!” I shoveled one more spoonful of cookie into my mouth in a dramatic gesture.
You see, men and women will probably never fully understand each other. But the smart guys know, when we’re on the whites, don’t question us if we’re spooning melted cookies into our mouths in a fit of rage. Just go with it and accept the fact that probably somehow, some way….it’s all your fault.
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