The PMS Monster

16 Oct

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Being the only girl around a lotta guys at work, hurts and helps in many ways…but the one time it totally wins out, is when I’m on a major PMS binge.

…When they see me getting completely illogical with my stress temperature gauge of cuss poetry, they don’t worry really…that only means it’s “Monday.”  But when I’m totally silent for hours at a time, and twitch with every phone ring, they know the next person to piss me off, is really gonna be in for it. 

This is the first incarnation of the The PMS Monster, which rapidly grows and will verily take over the entire office if not soothed immediately or sooner.  Not that I have a very high tolerance just now for the idiocy that runs rampant in my work place anyway, but I have like ZERO, once my hormones start pulsing and my outer shell starts to crack and split, and the skin falls away in a gooey mess of pulp, birthing something very closely resembling the lead villain in “Alien.”

…You do NOT want to be in the room at that point.  I promise you.  There have been stories amongst the manly stud-bunnies, who have seen it.  Stories hearkening  back to the kind of sick, twisted, sci-fi gore they won’t even play on cable until after 10 pm. 

Once The PMS Monster has been brought to life, there IS no going back. 

…There is only carnage and mayhem and screaming women in streets that run red with the blood of mankind.

In short: it’s pretty gruesome.

…But the stud-bunnies have figured out over time, (and trial and error), that BRIBING the great beast, can often usurp the change from fully taking place.  “Peace offerings,” if you will.  Things like drip coffee from an actual coffee place (not a generic container.)  Or a donut.  Or McDonald’s french fries.  Or a post-it with a stick figure killing himself in nine different ways. Or a funny dance with a screw gun that ends badly.  Or a competition on who can string more cuss words together most efficiently.  Or news that the whole place has burned down, and I’m only dreaming right now.

…In essence, if you FEED The PMS Monster something, she has been known to tame.  Not for “always,” mind you…but for “a while,” at least.

…And today, without any training in this field at all, a buddy somehow caught the silent shaking reserve via text, and informed that he was bringing Tai for dinner, after work, and pending rehearsal call.  When I said I hadn’t any rehearsal, he threw in two pints of Tillamook ice cream to sweeten the deal further, and busted through the door with more food than seven people could eat…popping open every tray, introducing it’s contents and star-value, then stepping away from the alter of almighty PMS Monster, to ravage at her will.

A smart man. 

…Then, as The PMS Monster, heaped her plate with plenty, and fed ravenously from the noodle and peanut sauce-covered carcases of dude-friend’s offering, she slowly came to calm a bit from the day’s shit-fest of rage and utter frustration.  And a couple laughs between chews, helped a little too.

…Hours later…with the last taste of mint chip ice cream licked from her lip, The PMS Monster was finally able to sit down and write a blog.  Not the kind full of screaming bitchings and oath-sworn hatreds, as she had originally intended.  Instead: now the hormonal animal of already well-induced-stress, is ready to make way for bed, with a full tummy, and a good book, and a day won in the 11th hour (literally), from the jaws of total irredeemable “shit.”

And this is why friends are important. (P.S.)

~D

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