Sunday, August 27

Okay, chicken kicking time—and some therapeutic bitching.

Writers are somewhat neurotic. A female writer suffering PMS is called A Neurotic Blubbering Bitch on A Caffeine Sugar Buzz. I don’t brandish a weapon when I’m pms’ing, but I sure as hell throw a lot of books, slam doors, and kick every chicken that crosses my path. Watch me walk into a room and see six boys scatter like cockroaches when a light’s flipped on.

The thing that really pisses me off is that when I get like this, I can’t write. It only lasts a day, maybe two, but if I force myself to write when I get in one of these moods I only type crap.

Men are baffled by the PMS syndrome. What’s to be baffled about? Really? I’m curious. A woman’s hormones go berserk inside her body, she screams, cries, and threatens to push the little red button if you piss her off just one more time. It’s been proven that a woman’s brain swells during this time of the month, which also causes erratic behavior and mood swings. I ask again. What’s so freaking hard to understand about PMS???

But the writer gal who’s in a foul, hormone-induced mood, who can’t write because of the foul hormone-induced mood, is the one to really be wary of. She lies in wait of the unwary chicken to step out of the coup for a few choice bugs in the grass. WHAM! Said chicken is punted to the moon—or the nearest garage roof—and she scores!

Do not ask the writer gal what’s for lunch ninety-nine times from the safety of the living room. A can of Campbell’s Soup can reach you. With the proper angle and a good ricochet off the stovetop, that can of soup will nail your ass where you sit in the easy chair with your feet up as you watch yet another Spongebob Squarepants re-run.

Beware of the pms’ing writer mom who can’t find the chocolate because one of her six sons has found and eaten it where she had it hidden in the tin on the top shelf behind Grandma Maggie’s good dishes. She will choose the most perfect moment to pounce. She will lace the next chocolate bar with habanero pepper and carefully wrap that lovely flavor bomb chocolate bar just like it was before, placing it in the tin for next time. Hoowee baby! Can we say fart fire?

And never ever—not even if you’re wearing armor AND a bullet proof vest—bother me when I’m trying to write while pms’ing. It’s like signing your own death certificate. Just ask the chickens. (So far, 47 out of 50 have the imprint of my Champion sneaker treads on their feathery asses.) I’m in a foul mood as it is, my hormones are raging, the words aren’t working like they normally do, so that red crazed glint in my eyes and the appearance of hormonal fangs should tell you something, right? Right???

Last time I looked, two kids were hiding under the sofa, one was in the living room closet, two had gone upstairs to their rooms, and the oldest was swinging by the seat of his pants from the ceiling fan in the family room...hey, he pissed me off over the chocolate. What can I say? It’s the PMS.

16 comments