It’s Jurassic Park around here and just call me Tyrannosaurus Rex


Warning : Intense bitching and discussing of female issues to follow.  Enter at your own risk.

Those dinosaurs?  They’re me.  The kid scared out of his mind, cowering behind the desk?  Anyone that crosses my path a certain week out of certain months out of the year.  It’s not always like this.  It’s not always bad.  It’s usually pretty easy, minus a few cramps and way too many trips to the bathroom.  But when it gets bad, it gets bad pretty quickly.  The angry verbal lava you are spewing from your mouth runs hot and fast and before you know it, there’s been a lot of damage done.

I don’t know how women who have to deal with PMS every month manage to survive and with their marriages intact.  My periods have always been pretty symptom less, but post pregnancies, they got complicated, just like everything else in my life.  Now I don’t know what each month will bring.  It’s like being on the Price is Right.  There could be a new car behind that door or a frying pan.  I could be writhing in pain and sofa bound, cursing my uterus, ovaries, estrogen, mother nature and the cosmic forces that made me a woman.  Or the week could breeze by with minimal discomfort and I can toss and turn and sleep in whatever position I want to without worrying about waking up to the Chainsaw massacre.

This guess and go game of my reproductive cycle is distressing.  It may not seem that way, but I don’t like being a bitch.  No, I really don’t.  I feel like when I am, it’s because I’m provoked.  Examples would be when the old fart next door is mowing his lawn for the >insert any number of your liking here, it’ll work< time and that too on a Saturday morning, when no one wants to see the ass crack of dawn.  I feel like I’m usually nice to a fault, but I’m sure my husband would disagree.

This post isn’t about me, though.  It’s about me in relation to PMS.  Premenstrual syndrome.  I don’t know why they call it that when you feel the symptoms before, after, and during your cycle.  Someone enlighten me.  The worst thing, in my opinion, about PMS is that you JUST CANNOT FREAKING CONTROL IT.  It’s like a damn affliction.  When I’m swearing at the spaghetti water because “how the eff do you dare to boil that slow, your mother must have been some form of reverse osmosis shit”, I know I look like a mad woman.  But I can’t help it.  It’s like you know the bridge has collapsed and there’s a bazillion foot fall but you’re going to go on ahead anyway because your brain has lost control of the stick shift that is your mental balance.  That’s what it is.  A momentary (long moment) loss of mental balance.  Describes it perfectly for me.  I just didn’t want to use the term out of respect to people who really suffer from mental illness.  But then they say PMS can sometimes be a form of mental illness.  This is such a face palm moment.

Anyway, I hope I didn’t gross you out too much and you managed to enjoy your little tour through the female brain during uterine shedding season.  And no, I don’t think women are superior to men because they have to deal with Niagara falls in the overalls every month, even if the vein of this blog post seems to be heading in that direction.  As someone once snarkily pointed out to me, men have issues that are unique to their gender, also.  Like how to deal with their wives when aunt flow is visiting.  I see my husband’s face when I’ve turned into the housewife from hell and I hate the look I see there.  It makes me sad that I’m so mean and he’s so helpful, which unleashes another spewing of demonic proportions brought on by the frustration of knowing I’m so mean and he’s so helpful.  It’s a crazy, vicious cycle.  Pun intended.

So there’s my rant of the day/ode to my sistas.  What’s that?  I shouldn’t blog about female issues because it’s a public platform and it’s gross and what’s my problem, do I have cooties?  Well, what can I say?  That’s just how I am.  I don’t mind discussing issues of the female persuasion in the company of males as long as it’s done aesthetically, meaning I won’t ask you to see if this tampon can fit inside your nostril but I can help you out if you want to know what medicine will work best for your girlfriend and her “female problems.” What?  I sound like a bitch?  Well then, you’ll just have to forgive me.  You see, I’m on my period.

Dinosaur pic courtesy of

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