|A PMS Episode - Drinking the Last Juice|
|By Bridgett H.|
This morning I woke up to the monthly headache and ill mood that is the introductory theme music to my PMS. From that moment on, I knew my day would suck. I wanted to crawl back in bed and just lay there for the next few days. Nevertheless, I dressed myself in something from the laundry basket and headed downstairs to get breakfast ready.
When I arrived in the kitchen, I immediately went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and flew into a rage that would even scare Naomi Campbell. Do you know what I was looking at? My husband, the jerk that he is, drank the last of my freaking orange juice and the a-hole placed the container right back in the fridge. Who does that? That orange juice wasn’t even his – it was mine. He’s the apple juice drinker. And the trashcan is what, eight feet away from the refrigerator? Is that too far for a man who walks three miles a day on the treadmill? Is it? Am I his personal slave? What kind of person did I marry?
When my husband came into the kitchen a few minutes later, he saw the empty juice carton in my hand and a look of contrition instantly appeared on his place. He said he was sorry and promised to bring a gallon of orange juice home after work. Then that sucker had the nerve to ask what I was cooking for breakfast. Was he serious? The man is insane I tell you – insane! My irrational anger was even worse now. He had no respect for me or my belongings. I threw a granola bar at him and stormed out of the kitchen.
Honestly, this wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this, and normally I would just let it go. Today was not that day. Forget the juice. I didn’t even wanted the stupid juice. It wasn’t about juice. It was about respect and appreciating me enough to not drink said juice and then leave the empty container in the refrigerator. As I fumed in the shower my brain was at war with itself. Half my brain was telling me my husband was a jerk. The other half argued that I still loved him, and that it wasn’t his fault because he was born an idiot. Still, my PMS warped mind was still consumed by anger. That anger would remain until something else came along and irked me and gave me something new for my irrationality to feed upon. God Bless the person who’s too lazy to put a new roll of toilet paper on the tissue holder in the downstairs bathroom today. It is going to be on like hot buttered popcorn!
This type of behavior is a monthly occurrence for me – at least until the drugs kick in and level me out a bit. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a family who accepts me all thirty days of the month, even though they are admittedly a little less fond of me from the 13th to the 18th of each month. PMS can really suck, but it’s a little more manageable when you have people around you who care. Just as long as they don’t drink the last bit of your favorite juice and leave the freaking carton in the refrigerator!
Angelina, I really need to know – does Brad do this to you? Please let me think he is perfect.