I know I’ve banged on about hormones before but I need to again in the hopes the very act of banging on again might get me through this month’s barrage of harrumph.
Here’s my first thought when I woke to the rising run today: “Oh for God sake day, fuck OFF”. That’s when you know things are going to be a little grumpy.
And then you realise it’s Tuesday which is Everything Day – library, guitar, gymnastics, sport and parent help, for which each activity needs its own bit of equipment or clothing or brain space (thank GOD for Tuesdays in the schoolhouse or it’d be Tuesdays in the nuthouse).
And then you are told it’s the first day of spring and there is no view out the window on account of the misty cold and you think, “Oh come ON, Spring you mizzle-faced traitor, be punctual for once in your life dammit”.
At breakfast you open the box of brand new BE NATURAL LEMON MYRTLE AND PEPPERBERRY CLUSTERS and there are NO CLUSTERS and you’re all, “Where are the fucking clusters in this box of clusters, this is a god damn cluster fuck.” It’s true, I dug around in the bland brown flakes and found ONE cluster, which was kind of nasty tasting anyway because someone in the BE NATURAL recipe department thought it would be a good idea to bung some bush tucker into their cereal in case idiots like me might be feeling patriotic in the cereal aisle.
And when I’m packing up the lunchboxes I get all tied up in the superfood guilt complex and how I should be popping protein balls in their wrapper free compartments in place of the glad wrapped fruit bun with extra butter. Which causes me to feel fed up with the superfood movement because last week I made sugar free muesli bars and no bugger’s eaten even one and when they come back in the lunchboxes I eat them which could account for my bloated feeling because they are full of coconut oil which is fat even if it’s good fat.” So superfoods be damned. And clusters”, I think as I throw in a carrot to ease guilt. “See you this afternoon little carrot”, I whisper.
Then a small person bounces over with one of those origami chatterbox things and before she can cry, “Pick a number Mum” I say, “NO CHATTERBOX TODAY”, because I’ve had too much chatterbox and I know that she’ll ask me how to spell purple for the billionth time and that under number 3 it says that I smell and I’m just not in the mood for spelling purple or unjust insults. She has to bounce away to find her Dad who patiently asks for number four which means I am officially the party pooper parent. Bolts of guilt and self-loathing shoot through me.
“I’m a horrible person”, thinks I, and this sparks off that weird thing when you sort of get suspended above yourself at enough height to look disparagingly down your nose at pretty much everything. “Grumpy, selfish, impractical, dagggy, impatient, bloated, no prospects, unskilled…” Negative negative negative. And then a tear pops out and you think, “Oh me, you poor old thing” and the self pity starts up.
Then I try escaping to the place that usually fixes me – my imagination, the place of my dreams and my sparkling, exciting ideas. Only it’s empty in there, and grey. There are no inspiration vents open either. It’s like some bastard burglar has broken in, stolen everything and on the way out, put out my pilot light.
And this all takes place – on account of the no-clusters clusters – before breakfast. I know, it was a barrel of laughs in my head this morning let me tell you.
But back up the truck, thinks I, did I say bloated? Yes I’m bloated, oh thank God for bloat, bloat without farts can only mean one thing – Aunt Flo, you sneaky old mole, you’re on your bleeding way.
And before my husband gets his head snapped clean off for suggesting we are out of printing paper, I announce, “Everybody, I am PRE-MESTRUAL, which means you must do exactly as I say, take initiative, don’t make a mess, don’t comment on anything I do, don’t ignore me, don’t harass me, ask no questions and maybe don’t look at me for anything up to 3 days; there are EGGSHELLS EVERYWHERE people.”
And now that I’ve spoken out, and bawled you my dear readers up in the corner with my grumblings, perhaps this bumpy part of my cycle will smooth the fuck out a bit.
As long as no one approaches me with a chatterbox. Ever again. Period.