The week before my period is a great time creatively. I have lots of brilliant ideas and even remember some of them. I can re-organize a closet or decorate a bedroom. I can do anything as long as it doesn’t involve hardware, as I’m likely to bang my finger with a hammer, knock my head against cupboard doors and drop anything made of glass. Also, not too good at parenting. Anything involving the care and feeding of small children… not optimal. The reason why it’s a great time for both creativity and orgasms, and a bad time for parenting is one and the same- I am way too sensitive.
For someone liable to burst into tears at a cat video, I am remarkably insensitive towards other humans from Day 23 through Day 27. I favor phrases like “Shut-up!” “The fuck I will,” and “Mommy needs to lie down before something bad happens to you.” I am mean, intolerant and impatient- all the things I expect other people not to be. I think they call that a Vitamin B deficiency. I call it acting like a cunt.
When I am in a relationship and I have PMS I am intermittently bitchy and clingy, sometimes at the same time. I want to be cuddled, held and touched, but only with the exact amount of pressure and duration. Nothing more heartwarming than being hugged and criticized. If you leave the room, I will feel abandoned. If you mention I seem cranky, I will throw something at you. If you are breathing, you will not win. It’s a wonder my ex-husband managed to stay married to me for as long as he did.
If I’m not in a relationship, and have just added someone to my fuck roster during that exalted hormonal week, I do not want to be held. I do not want any kind of oral sex, giving or receiving. I don’t want sweet nothings in my ear, or sweet suckling of my breasts, in fact, don’t even look at me. Just fuck the shit out of me, with as little fanfare as possible. Get the job done and I will be almost civil to you afterwards. Otherwise, after the act, you will be treated like a cheap whore without the pay part, “Okay you can go now.”
I don’t want little child hands on me today or filthy feet on my stuff. I can’t tolerate the escalating whines of “Mommy mommy MOMMY…” Every sound they make cuts through my nerves like a buzz saw. Every time the dogs bark, it makes me want to throw myself off the mountain on which I currently reside. It’s also inevitably the time when a stray basketball will hit me in the face because… G-d hates me. And my kids know all about it. I have patiently explained to my boys about the days before a woman’s “Lady Time” when mommy has to be handled like fine china. (In fact, I’m writing this now because my nine year old just suggested I go to my room and “cool down.”)
When there are no emails or texts on my phone, it is automatically assumed that I am not loved and have never been. At the same time, if anyone does reach out, I will happily let calls go to voicemail or remain unanswered. It is the one week of the month when I am not attracted to other women- I can only imagine the hell of being tethered to one, as our periods synchronize. Perhaps I only believe in gay marriage for women for three weeks out of the month?
We ladies are truly the salt of the earth, I know because that salt is retaining all water on the earth in my boobs. The exaltation I felt upon getting my first period, “Yay-finally!” would have been considerably dampened if I’d realized I could look forward to FORTY more years of this shit. Which makes it the ideal time to lock the door, take out my old friends, and vibrate the tension away. Who knows, after a few hours of whacking it I could be rendered if not “human” then at least someone who could convincingly portray a human for a few more days without incurring any felonies. So… who’s bringing the chocolate?