It should have been obvious that things were taking a turn for the worse when, after Janie had been gone for a week in California, the first thing I said upon her return was “I’m really upset because you keep leaving things around, like a little trail all over the house, with shit on the floor and on the bed and in the sink, and I just spent a week cleaning up and putting things away!” No Hi, I missed you, nice to see you, take off your shirt. In the ensuing days, it was more of the same: “I can’t believe you just left your towel on the toilet, like that’s where it goes! Why are you doing this to me?” and “Why is there trash in the garbage can? YOU KNOW I HATE IT WHEN THE GARBAGE CAN HAS TRASH IN IT!”
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the rationale of a woman suffering from PMS after not having her period for three months. While this may seem like a blessing to many, let me just say that when the inevitable happens after two, three or six months of a certain kind of freedom, the world comes crumbling down around you and the only thing you know is the scree scree scree of a knife-like scraping at your barren little uterus. The only thing you hear when your wife tells you she loves you is “I think you’re a bad person and I hate you. Also, you’re ugly.” The only thing you can think is If having a baby is worse than this in any way, then it’s probably a good thing I’ll never be able to have one. The only thing you care about is that pile of Midol and that bottle of tequila that will comfort you while you crumple to the bathroom floor and scream, “My rotting ovaries are trying to kill me!” All the parts of the brain that control common sense are replaced with chronic discontent and feelings of despair.
Then it kicks into high gear, with body aches, head aches, heart aches and a desire to spend money on expensive photography equipment and organic cereals. I need hugs, but don’t touch me, it hurts too much. I need a bath, but I can’t take off my pants because it hurts too much. I want to watch TV, but I can’t because Tyra Banks hurts me too much. Why is the world such a terrible place, with poverty, hunger, war and Republicans? Do you think it hurts more to have your insides torn from your body or to have Dick Cheney shoot you in the face? All this until the tequila/Midol cocktail kicks in and they find you unconscious in your neighbors kitchen wearing nothing but a tank top, granny panties and fake Ugg boots.