Before I hit my late 30s, I thought that shit about how crazy women become before their periods was exaggerated, misogynist nonsense. Yeah, I’m super irritable sometimes, but it’s not because of my period. Once when I lived with Ray and the topic of PMS came up, I said something like, “It’s a good thing I never get that way.” I remember that he then looked at me with a mixture of confusion and slight fear, the way I always look at my cat when he brings me a dead bird. Like, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react here, but I know I’d better tread carefully because if I make one wrong move I could get my head torn off.
Later, at a safer time, Ray informed me that I did in fact get bitchy before my period. “Hmm,” I replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”
I don’t like to admit how irritable I become, because I don’t like giving any credence to the idea that women are volatile creatures enslaved by their own hormones. And yet there is an undeniable correlation between my irritability level and my cycle.
It didn’t hit me until much later today why I stalked through Target this morning feeling the need to hurt others and muttering. I’m pretty sure the guy who helped me wrangle a forty-pound bag of dog food onto the bottom of my cart didn’t hear me say “Fucking dogs. Fuck those fucking dogs that have to eat fucking food.” Otherwise, he probably would have kept a wide berth.
Anyway, I hated everything I put in my goddamn cart, hated every item with a seething rage.
Ped Egg electronic foot file, I resent your very existence. I’m still upset that my original rechargeable foot file just stopped working, as if to say, “I’m sorry. These calluses are too much for us to bear. Goodbye, cruel world.”
Razor blades. WHY DOES A PACK OF EIGHT RAZOR BLADES COST $22.88??? What are these razor blades made out of?
Four jumbo bags of candy my husband asked me to get for his giant candy container at work. These four bags of candy cost forty dollars! You need to get a better way to get people to like you! Learn some jokes. It’s cheaper. I am ripping one of these bags open on the way home. If you ask me how many pieces I ate, my answer will be “some.” Don’t press the issue.
Spreadable butter and a new container of garlic salt. I JUST bought spreadable butter. It’s nearly gone because my husband’s secret for spaghetti is boiling the noodles in a water/garlic salt/butter concoction. We’ve only had spaghetti once since I bought that butter, which means somebody (he) used a HELL of a lot of butter. Butter will now have to be rationed. I seriously think that twenty years of smoking burned his taste buds off; that’s why he has to add a fuckton of garlic salt to everything. There’s no point in saying anything about it because I already tried to broach the topic with him and his response was, “I’m sorry, do you not like your noodles to be delicious?”
Other than the dog food, the most expensive item I had to buy was that supplement that has the special kinds of probiotics to “repopulate” your vagina. That shit is $28.50. I am feeling like it would be way more cost effective to steal one of those lime yogurts for medicinal use.
My vagina was depleted, and I was angry. So angry that I started dredging up things that have been bothering me for a while, things I don’t have a satisfactory explanation for.
Kate Hudson and Matt Bellamy. I know, they split up years ago, but I’m still trying to puzzle it out. The tortured soul Bellamy is the frontman for Muse; Hudson is every girl I went to high school with who moved to Ecuador to become a yogi. And once upon a time, they were engaged. How did this happen? What were those conversations like?
Matt: Look through a faithless eye. Are you afraid to die? It scares the hell out of me. The end is all I can see.
Kate: What was that, honey? OMG, check out this amazing bronzer.
Matt: Look to the stars. Let hope burn in your eyes. And we’ll love. And we’ll hate. And we’ll die. All to no avail.
Kate: I’m going to start a new line of athletic wear called “Fabletics.” Because it’s athletic—but it’s also fabulous! Get it?
Daddy-daughter dances. I don’t get dances in general. OK, I get them…they’re a cultural phenomenon wherein people come together to collectively express themselves and relate to one another through music and movement blah blah blah. Still. The only part of dances that makes sense to me is the opportunity to canoodle with a guy you like, a possibility made creepy if you attend the event with your dad. Wouldn’t a girl prefer to have a conversation with her father without swaying awkwardly and yelling at each other over the latest inappropriately sexual pop song? Hello, Electra complex. What’s next, mother-son dances? I can’t wait until the country is swept by a scourge of Oedipal balls. And if you’re looking for a band name, there you go.
The Penguin. That’s right, the Penguin, from Batman. I thought there was nothing lamer than my fantasies of vanquishing my enemies in crossword puzzle contests and spelling bees, but no—there’s a man in a tuxedo who terrorizes an entire city with his collection of mechanized umbrellas. What . . . why? I know his back story explains why, but it seems so lame. I guess life was way simpler in the 40s. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with crime nowadays—a lack of imagination. I say if ISIS wants to come over here and wreak havoc, they have to play by our rules. Give ‘em all used rainy-weather gear and see how they measure up. Also, that would make an amazing reality show: Did you see Are You Smarter Than a Terrorist? last night? I sure did, and I can’t wait for next week. I think some shit’s going down in Muhammad’s galoshes.
Christian trucking companies. I’m suspicious of any business that identifies itself as “Christian,” but particularly those semis touting Christian messages: “God Bless America.” “It’s a child, not a choice.” “Attend a church of your choice this week.” (Oh boy, a choice?! It’s exciting to have a choice in where I practice the Christianity you’re forcing on me, especially since you’ve just told me I can’t make choices about my own uterus.) My best explanation for this phenomenon is that many trucking companies are based in the Bible belt. Regardless, these transportational evangelists should stick to delivering foodstuffs and material goods. I’m not going to be converted by them. While we’re at it, the guy who goes to the trouble to get signs made from right-wing propaganda and displays them on a crane on the side of the highway? Just stop. I know. Hillary should be in jail. And I’m not signing my kid up for the Central [Name of State Redacted] Christian Crusaders Football and Cheer Team. I wish I was making this up. Go Jesus.
Ahh. I feel much better now.
I think my lady parts feel a little fresher, too. Cheering for Jesus must repopulate the vagina. I’m honestly surprised Christians haven’t tried that tack yet.