This is not the blog where we talk about PMS. Some people post about it regularly, but it just isn’t something I feel the need to discuss. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever posted about it on the Cowardly Feminist. So for the dude readers that just did a collective eye roll over the prospect of a lady-day post, this is not a story about PMS, it’s about my husband.
My husband is the California King of Smartass Ville. It’s in his blood, and he can’t help it. Fortunately for him, he is also one of those individuals funny and likeable enough to pull off the most brazen of sarcastic quips and still have people like him. I guess it’s a gift.
I’ve also posted previously about the complete lack of predictability in his job. It changes all the time, there is no set schedule, and we never really know what’s going on until the project actually begins. Long time readers might remember around this time last year when we found out at four in the afternoon he was leaving for the Philippines the following morning. Yeah, that was
completely shitty awesome. Over the years I’ve learned to roll with it. Life is much easier for both of us that way.
Which brings me to yesterday.
PMS hit me like a freight train around midday. Within an hour I was irritable, feeling gross, and in general, bitchy. A couple of hours later my husband called. The details of what transpired are a little confusing, but suffice it to say that over the span of two hours and two phone conversations, his schedule did a complete 180, changed again, and then again. The last change was accompanied by the discovery that he was on his way home, several hours before I expected him to be. Ordinarily I would have been happy he was coming home early. My hormone-addled brain, however, processed things a little differently than usual. I was in the middle of writing, and instead of being glad he had an early day, I felt like my work was interrupted. I could have continued to write, and normally I would have, but instead I seethed at the disruption. And the more I thought about all the scheduling changes, the more annoyed I became, even though it was no different than any other week.
Needless to say, when my husband walked in the door twenty minutes later I was in full-on cranky pants mode. So, we’re standing in the kitchen, and all of my answers to his idle chit chat were short and ill-tempered. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms, and said, “What’s wrong?” I, of course, gave the standard answer of pissed off women everywhere, “Nothing!”
A look of confusion crossed his face, because clearly by nothing I meant screw you. So he replied with genuine concern, “No, something is going on, and you should really vocalize it.”
At that point, I totally lost my marbles and went something like this, “MARGMARGMARGBLAGITYBLAAAAACK!” There was a lot of yelling and gesticulating involved.
After that I fed the dogs, and we each took one for a walk. I stomped off in one direction, and he went in another. While watching Lil Stinko sniff every blade of grass in the lawn, it occurred to me I had just acted like a total lunatic. Now, guys won’t get this, but women will. Sometimes when PMS first hits you, you don’t actually recognize it for what it is, you only know you are angry. Anyway, the realization of why I was freaking out only made me more upset, because there is nothing worse than knowing you’re behaving badly and not being in control of it. So I marched upstairs, and when my husband walked in the door, I explained, while yelling, that I had PMS, that I was angry, and sorry, and it had nothing to do with him, and finished with, “And I’m not going to cook dinner!”
By that time I was nearly in tears. In other words, I was a total train wreck. My husband calmly gave me a hug, told me he loved me, and asked me what I wanted to eat. For the remainder of the evening he put up with me in all my grumpiness. Bless that man – he is one laid back dude.
Flash forward to this afternoon.
Most of this morning my husband left me in peace to work. This afternoon he waltzed into the office and informed me his schedule changed yet again, leaving him with the next four days off, and so he had decided to drive up north to take photos. Unfortunately, there are some logistical problems with that plan. As I pointed each issue out to my husband, he literally danced around the room with a camera in his hand and zinged out one smart ass remark after the other in reply. Each and every line was said with a wiggle and a shake – I can only assume the effort of not uttering a single wisecrack all morning and the night before was too much for him, and so the pent up sarcasm just oozed from his mouth, causing him to dance with joy. He was in rare form, I’m talking SmartAss Extraordinaire. My mood, however, is not any better than it was yesterday. But he knows the deal – I’ve used up all my bitchy cards. I already had my little meltdown, and had a pouty pants fit for most of the evening, all of which he bore with good grace. Now all bets are off. He’s like a kid with a stick, trying to poke a sleeping bear at the zoo.
All I can say is, you better run fast, boy.
Anyway, I’m not a particularly romantic person, but the point of my story is that I can be a nut, and my husband always, always knows exactly what to say, when to say it, and when to shake it. I love him for that.