So it's been a bleak few days here at Edgehill House, mostly it's my fault. I recently read an article about the way pharmaceutical companies have been capitalizing on the idea of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (they figured out a way to extend the copyright on Prozac by relabeling it as Serafem and selling it as a cure for PMDD), and how nobody's really done any good studies to prove that this disorder actually exists. Well, I am here to tell the world, it freaking exists. Some of the feminists involved in the article think it is a dangerous thing to categorize the variety of female emotion as a Disorder, and to them I say, You Do Not Know What It Is Like. I bet they never woke up in the morning wanting to cut all of their hair off with a pair of dull scissors. That's how my Sunday started, and it only got worse from there.
I watched a rare half hour of TV with my husband Sunday night and saw a commercial for Jazz, this "revolutionary" new birth control pill that is supposed to cure PMS. I hate being advertised to, just seeing an ad for something usually makes me NOT want to buy it (especially the mind numbingly stupid ads targeted at WOMEN), but I couldn't help myself, I thought "when my insurance kicks in I am going to get myself a doctor and Get These Freaking Pills!!!" Except I've sworn off pills because I believe that diet, exercise and meditation are the things a person should try first, and I know that they work for me, when I'm not being LAZY. (And this time through, I am lazy. I watched two hours of thirty second clips of 60 Minutes on Yahoo last night because of inertia. If I'd had any good snack food in my house I would have eaten ALL OF IT. )
Anyway, my husband, being the shell-shocked veteran that he is, agreed with me, but not so strongly as to arouse my Ire. We've been married for a long time and he deserves some kind of medal just for still being alive. He's really good at riding out my mood swings. But I could tell by this afternoon that it was getting to him. So we ate dinner at Chinese House. Nobody has to cook, nobody has to feel put upon (it doesn't matter who's turn it is to cook, who washed dishes last, who "deserves a break" because when my hypothalamus is stewing in the hormonal cocktail I could find fault with freaking Mother Teresa - and even if I don't voice it out loud - he can still hear the accusations).
I don't want to talk to anybody at all for at least two more days. Unfortunately, I have to work, and I have to figure out how to get my kid to do her homework without smacking her upside the head (I'm So Sorry Mom!), I have to figure out what to do with this dog who refuses to poop when I take it for walks, and then poops inside the house... Only it's not very much poop, so it isn't inconvenient enough to negate how freaking CUTE the dog is in his new Denim Jacket.