My fear is that this isn’t just PMS- it’s my personality.
My fear is that this isn’t just PMS- it’s my personality.
Or as I should call it, How 50 Shades of Grey ruined my sex life. That’s right. I said ruined. I know, I know- you’re like, ‘WTF FRUG, you were all gushing about it in your music video‘. Yeah, well, that was back then. Now, unless my husband reads those books, (has any guy read them?) or any other middle aged-mom-soft porn, I can forget getting hot and heavy like Ana and Christian did. My husband will never look at me with smoldering eyes, fingering one of his silk ties in his hands, while he strolls on over to me wearing ripped up jeans and carrying a riding crop, telling me to ‘hold still’. Our idea of kinky is when one of us gets a neck cramp during ‘relations’.
Who the fuck has time for hot sex anymore? I’m talking monogamous, happily married, tear off each other’s clothes, pretend like you haven’t been married for 15 years sex. My body isn’t a robot. I don’t have a ‘TURN ON’ switch. So if it isn’t the time of the month, fatigue, sciatic nerve spasms, gas from too much bread at dinner… it’s a miracle there’s any relations going on at all. Seriously, mom- this might be where you stop reading- or put your fingers in your ears ‘lalalalala…I can’t hear you.’
Is it nature’s job to just mess with us? And by us, I mean women. It’s not that I don’t want sex, necessarily (oh dear God, mother, I am so sorry), it’s just that the urge for it really is sporadic. Here is a typical cycle of my libido in any given week-
Monday night= staying up to catch up on DVR shows and blog. Plus, my crops in WeTopia are far overdue to be harvested. Hubs is asleep on the couch. #Sameoldstory.
Tuesday= 11 am, started reading a book/ article/ or was watching Last of the Mohicans on one of the Encore channels with Daniel Day Lewis wearing deer skin pants- the only movie he’s ever looked THAT good- and think- hmmm, if hubby was home right now I would SO tap that keg.
Tuesday night= hubby’s home- and awake, but I have gas from that new quinoa and white bean recipe I tried. Plus, I snarfed that bag of Doritos when no one was around earlier, so the MSG is bloating in my intestines. This equals unsexy for sure.
Wednesday = Hubby’s working from home but I’m feeling glum and sad over how my jeans don’t fit me after I take them out of the dryer. I wish he would give me a back rub. And by back rub, I mean, back rub. And bring me donuts.
Thursday= holy hell- was surfing the web for blog material and happened to come across a whole handful of hot guys which got me thinking how nice it would be if hubby was working from home today. But he’s not. Once again, two ships- different ports.
Friday night= fell asleep in front of my lap top at around 9:30 surfing the web for swim suits that will never fit me. Got distracted and started watching cute kitten videos on YouTube, but my eyelids were so heavy, so now I’m just snoring on the couch. Maybe hubs will carry me upstairs, undress me and put me in to bed, which will wake me just enough for me to be aroused and he’ll pleasure me luxuriously for hours. Wait. Scratch that. Hubs hasn’t picked me up EVER since I weigh as much as he does, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make it up the stairs carrying my fat ass, especially with his bum knee. Plus he’s fallen asleep on the couch while updating his roster for Fantasy Soccer.
Saturday= went out with girl friends and got all dolled up to impress other ladies and get hit on by men that don’t mean anything to me. Stumbled home around midnight and took some Advil and went to bed.
Sunday= still recovering from the night before’s outing. Hubs gives me THE LOOK while we are brushing our teeth getting ready for bed. I’m like, “What?”, He’s like, “hey there”. I’m all, “hey there yourself”. Put in my night guard, throw my hair up in a scrunchie and call it a night. 6:30 am isn’t waiting for nobody and Monday mornings are always hell trying to drag my sorry ass out of bed. So no nookie for you my dear. Sleep time.
And there you have the random week in the life of a married couple that wishes, just wishes, that Afternoon Delights, Hotel Sex, or Anniversary sex, could come during random times of the day, conveniently when there’s no time of the month, gassy stomach bloat, constipation, or children around to bother or in their case, be bothered. OR telemarketers or the Mother In Law calling, or the dog whining at the bottom of the bed.
Yep. I went there. My next blog will be- ‘Why you shouldn’t blog about your sex life and humiliate your ultra, introverted husband.’
Okay, so I’m a few months off. It was actually back in October. But don’t you think every flippin’ week should be Mental Illness Awareness Week? What about National PMS week? Oh wait, never mind.
My mom gave me an article from the New York Times Magazine (“All the Rage” by Ayelet Waldman) that flipped a light bulb on in my head like a dark attic lighting up for the first time in years (insert blond jokes here, if you will). It was about a woman’s diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder II that was really her body needing SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor). Chemicals in a woman’s body that metabolizes Progesterone the week before Aunt Flo and that is what causes our roller coaster mood drop. So she wasn’t Bipolar at all, just really PMSing! BAD! Apparently, we also go through mood shifts right before ovulation when our luteinizing hormones surge- aka estrogen. Apparently, these really fuck up our brains . Yeah, no shit!! I’ve discussed my PMDD and Dysmenorreah before with you. I’m not going all WebMd here, just making some realizations that might help me and help us all.
Thank you Ms. Waldman for a candid and eye-opening piece. Could we have your article printed on boxes of Tampax please so everyone gets this information?
I should just call my blog the Freakin PMS blog, I know! I seem to always write about it. Well, there’s a lot of mommy bloggers out there writing about diapers and shit and they don’t call their blogs, ‘the diapers and shit blog’. If there is one called that, please send it my way, cuz that’s probably some funny stuff.
So where was I? Right. Complaining. Again. More like, enlightening you all on your own vicious cycles. Ohh, wouldn’t that be an awesome name for an all girl indie-bitch rock band- The Vicious Cycles!! Okay, if THAT already exists, then I want to know and buy their single on iTunes.
I feel like everything in my life is related to my hormones. The good days, the bad days. The productive days. The please-honey-don’t-touch-me-you-mother-fucker-asshat days, to the -gosh-you’re-the-sweetest-husband/father-anyone-could-ever-want days. To the I’m so strong and awesome when I work out, to I’m so fat and gross and pathetic. Anybody else relate?
The woman in the article said she kept a journal of every week of every month and recorded her sleep habits, irritations, moods, etc. She saw patterns develop and could anticipate what hormones were doing what when. She knew what anxiety medication to take, what hormone therapy to take when, when a glass of wine was helpful (not everyday as you might think!) and when she was most productive, and least effective. She knew when to anticipate the honey badger days, or the honeymoon days.
I guess what really inspired me was how much she took control of her situation. Not just laid around feeling crummy, home in her bathrobe with a half-melted pint of B&Js Americone Dream opened next to her on one side, and a bottle of vodka on the other. And just happening to check Google calendar and ‘oh whaddya know’, notice the date. Sound familiar? Too familiar. No kidding.
The article even mentions having your husband in on the process and when you are about to go all honey badger on him over the dishwasher or credit card bill, he looks at the journal and realizes the week, writes down his misgivings, and saves them for when you are in a good mood. Nice husband. Not sure all will want to play by those rules. I’m going to have a dry erase board in my bedroom color coded like the kids’ after school activities and car pool charts of my moods, sleep patterns and irritations each week- so he’ll know when I’m heading into my honey badger days. Maybe I’ll find one on Pinterest that someone has crafted themselves.
Oh dear god, please don’t tell me THAT exists too! Someone came up with a Flow Chart on Pinterest?? Get it?? Flow chart??
I crack myself up! (Must be a good week.)
And there’s something else lurking around the corner. My daughter will be 12 soon. 12. We know what THAT means. James is clearly relieved we have only one daughter. He’s already outnumbered with just me. I know, I’m a freakin’ force to be reckoned with. When Emma comes along, OH BOY…Satan’s Exacta.
Did you see Modern Family? You know what I’m talking about- “Satan’s Trifecta’.
Oh- don’t be an asshat and forget to vote. Scroll up and click on the Circle Of Moms badge and vote for me. Thank you!
I’m feeling a little honeybadgerish now. Or stabby. Or just downright bitchy.
My apologies. If you don’t like swear words, rants, or any references to PMS, then stop reading. Or if you are married to me, you can stop reading also.
Now there’s estrogen. Good lord, how much of this stuff do we need coursing through us? Well, enough I guess to keep us from growing facial hair and large Adam’s apples. But geeze. Sometimes I would just love to be some asexual being crawling along the ocean floor.
Or a honey badger. I think a honey badger doesn’t know the difference between a good day, and a PMS day. They just don’t give a shit.
Yesterday I got all mad at the hubs for leaving dishes in the sink and dishwasher over the entire weekend I left him alone and took the kids to the beach. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so mad if going to the ‘beach’ didn’t require a 4 hour drive in the pouring rain and a weekend of my two kids bickering over what DVD they get to watch in what bedroom. AND, getting to cook and clean just like at home. Not that I am not grateful for our wonderful friends having us over to their family beach house. But there wasn’t room service, laundry service or any nannies. I did it to give the hubs a break. Not make MORE work for me.
Okay, I’m over it. It’s fine. He’s sorry. I’m sorry.
My apologies for this ridiculous, useless blog post. Unless of course, you are feeling stabby too and maybe this helped you from actually stabbing someone, or something.
Let me be clear here folks. I will not mince my words. Being a female sucks. Puberty is a bitch, pregnancy and labor are hell and menopause and all the in between is ugly.
Men- let’s see… they go through puberty. They get boners in PE class if they see an elbow of an 8th grade girl. So what? Then when they get old and can’t get a boner from seeing a woman’s elbow, they take a pill to help with that. I will not sympathize with the male species. Sorry.
Lately I’ve been having, female issues. That’s code for menstrual cramps worse than normal. I think I lost about half of you at this sentence. But before you completely click on over to ESPN or Maxim or whatever, Golf Digest, for crying out loud- this may be helpful for you. You probably have a wife or girlfriend who has been through the same thing. You might use this as a cliff’s notes reference guide for the future.
I had to go to my gynecologist which is in the big, shiny city. There’s a parking garage with stalls the size of shoe boxes and elevators that are slower than sloths at feeding time. There’s usually a 15 minute wait in the waiting room, on top of a 20 minute wait in the exam room while wearing a paper gown. Usually my luck is when the nurse calls me back to the exam room, I’m caught off guard somewhat engrossed in my People magazine (thank God they have those in the waiting room and not just copies of Parents or Fit Pregnancy!), and I follow her to the room where she asks me how I’m doing, how are the kids, blah blah blah. Checks my blood pressure and then has me step on the scale. I haven’t even undressed yet and I kind of have to pee. I don’t want to make her wait while I use the bathroom, so I slip off my shoes and suck in my gut and step on the scale. I don’t know why I suck in my gut, I just do. They have digital scales now, not those old fashioned types like from The Walton’s anymore. You’d think these would be to my advantage since it’s like the one I have at home.
The nurse has me read the number. I really didn’t want to see the number thankyouverymuch, but okay. It’s 1_ _ !! Yeah, like I’m going to print it. 10 pounds more than last January, 8 pounds more than my scale at home, and 15 pounds more than the scale in the Bellagio hotel bathroom in Vegas that James and I stayed at 4 years ago. ( I loved that bathroom scale.)
I felt like someone punched me in the gut.
She has me put the gown on and wait. But I did sneak off to the bathroom before getting undressed. So in the privacy of my room, once I was undressed, I stood on that stupid, f*cking scale again, and I was 2 whole pounds lighter! Well amen to that!
I was sure to tell my doctor this when she came in with my chart.
I like my doctor. She’s very nice. Especially for a hoo-hoo doctor. She didn’t deliver my kids because she only started with this practice 4 years ago, and I miss my old doctor, but this doctor is a pleasant replacement.
After getting prodded (‘scoot a little further down the table please’) she sent me for blood work and an ultrasound in the coming weeks.
The lab for blood work was just down the stairs. So I sat there waiting for 20 minutes (not bad really) and was starving since it had been 4 hours since my morning oatmeal. But I was thinking that between being hungry and depending on how much blood they draw, I can count on losing another pound.
The phlebotomist was a funny guy that talked about heavy metal bands with me, of all things. I don’t mind getting my blood drawn. It hurts, I don’t look, and I hate the cotton ball with the piece of tape around it afterwards, but there’s worse, so I manage.
I’m on my way to the parking garage now, find my parking stub, drive up the swirly parking garage lanes to the top and then get the joy of paying the attendant on the way out.
Going to the doctor is so flippin’ expensive.
Because now I’m depressed since I’m thinking of all the weight I’ve gained, my ovaries and how I hope there’s no tumors on them. Or maybe I do because if they take them out (the tumors, not my ovaries) that could be a few pounds I lose right there.
So I go where any girl would. The mall. I need croissants and tea, and I need them stat.
Tea, croissants, and some makeup is all it takes to get this girl on track again. Well, not really. I was still sulking during my car ride home and then went to go cry on James’ shoulder while he worked from home today.
The good man he is asks, “Would you like some wine?” It was 2 in the afternoon, he was kind of kidding, but he knew what to say. Heaven forbid if he said, “oh you just need to go to the gym more times than you sit on the couch writing on your blog”, I would have smacked that ass hat across the room. (Ass hat is my new favorite word by the way, I will be using it more now.)
So I leashed up the dog and ran around the block listening to Adele and Mumford & Sons. Sometimes when someone is sadder than you it makes you feel better. I even gave James half my croissant.
So you see fellas (who are still reading and haven’t clicked over to Maxim yet), if there’s one thing you get from this post- just get your woman a glass of wine for God’s sake.
Here is the chart James has laminated in his wallet:
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