I'm a Scientist

I've figured out PMS, you guys. What happens is this: Something something something hormones something brain, something LETS OUT THE JOHN MCCAIN WHICH IS IN ALL OF US. And then he demands brownies.

You're welcome.

More Info Than You Requested

I'm too lazy to find it, but a couple months back, a commenter mentioned that I'll probably freak out when I reach menopause, because I love talking about my period so much. I'm hoping this isn't true. My Mom seems to have enjoyed being free of her lady time. She celebrated with buying all new underpants and going on a diet and appears to be happier and healthier than ever. However, I'm not sure she felt the same way about the whole menstruation business as I do.

I love my period. I love the excuse for being lazy and taking naps and eating large chunks of bloody cow. I love having a reason for being bitchy and paranoid and I love losing five pounds in the course of a day without doing a single sit-up or running a single solitary mile on the treadmill.

But most of all, I love embarrassing the hell out of people.

Someday, scientists will discover that embarrassment is genetic and I will get the embarrassment titer only to discover that I am missing that gene entirely. I think it's funny when people are squeamish about bodily functions and the language that describes them and God help you if I ever meet you in real life, dear reader, and I perceive that you are missish about teh Moon Time. I'm proud to have humiliated everyone from Duane Reade cashiers to bodega-haunting drug dealers in my time as a fertile female, and, assuming that I have another fifteen to twenty years of this left, I figure I can disturb many, many more folks before I stop bleeding.

The last time I was home my friend Kate mentioned that I told her most of what she knew about periods when we were kids, because I started early and was happy to talk about it. I expressed surprise.

"OK, I was early, but there were other fifth graders," I said. "Something to do with hormones in our chicken nuggets, I think."

"Yeah, but they were ashamed," Kate said. "You were happy to talk about it. Like, we couldn't get you to stop."

My sister claims that the bulk of my charm is in the fact that I never, ever change, and provided that you find any of these behaviors charming, I guess she's right.

OId Age Setting in

I woke up at 6:30 this morning for no apparent reason. Well, actually, that's not entirely true: I woke up at 6:30 this morning because I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's enough sleep for anyone.

It's pretty amazing that I managed this, though, because my neighborhood has gone insane. Some neighbor of mine was playing really weird European techno most of the evening, like loud - that volume that says, "You don't know it yet, but you really NEED this music." Well. I didn't.

Opera Guy is also back. This is some random dude who roams my hood singing arias to himself. I'm not sure which mental illness would make a person do this. Maybe too much art school?

Anyway, in general lately, everyone has been very strange. I've taken a poll, and 9 out of 10 people who allow me to IM them agree that people are quite stare-y on the subway, unusually persistent in their pursuit of spare change, prone to fits of giggling in otherwise staid and serious meetings, unwilling to tell their partners what's wrong, and so on.

I myself have been quite strange. For example, the other day I thought to myself, "I'm just so mad. I don't even know why. I just hate everyone! And my boobs really hurt." It took me a full day to realize that this condition is called PMS, and that I have had it for TWENTY YEARS.

Be careful out there, is all I can say.

Not an Original Observation, But...

...if birth control pills gave 80-year-old men erections, they would be distributed for free at every clinic, doctor's office, and pharmacy across this great nation of ours. Instead, I just had to pay fifty goddamn American dollars (or 11 Euros) for my baby-go-ways, because my health insurance hates vag.

Or something like that. There was some fine print and I wasn't feeling up to arguing. Which is how they get you.

Maternal Instinct

I nearly struck a small child this afternoon on the train, because he was poking me repeatedly with an umbrella. Possibly the only thing that stopped me was the memory, trapped, no doubt, at the cellular level, of the look of horror on my sister's face some years ago when I recommended that a screaming child on the Acela be euthanized.

"It's very clearly broken," I explained. "Maybe we could get its people a lovely shar-pei."

Today's child wasn't a babe in arms, which makes his behavior much less excusable. In fact, he was old enough to walk, although not old enough to protest when his parents dressed him in a teeny set of overalls and weirdly girlie pink rainboots. So I'm guessing about four or five. He poked me in the side with his small-person-sized umbrella, and then - this was the worst part - he smiled.

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" I said.

He giggled. Poke, poke, poke.

"A little lower," I said. "See if you can get the kneecap."

His Dad, who seemed to only speak Mandarin, took no notice. The ladies across the train, however, thought the whole thing was hilarious. Which brings me to my next two points:

1) I have the least scary face in the world, even when I'm annoyed.
2) Kids, dogs and cats will insist on sitting on me, even though - maybe because - I'm slightly allergic to all of them.

In anticipation of your protests: There are many pets and people of small size near and dear to my heart. I love my sister's dog, and both of my cousin Shannie's little girls. But these are blood relatives (yes, even the dog) and therefore much easier to understand.

And Now We Make Things Nice and Neat

A lifetime ago, I lived just outside Boston in an old triple-decker with new paint and a tidy little yard. The landlord and lady were Irish, and I highly suspect I got the place because of my red hair and freckles.

Once a month, Siobhan would take out a bucket and a ton of bleach and clean everything to a cinder.

"Cheers, Jennifer," she'd say. "I've got the PMS. If it isn't moving, it's going to get bleached."

At which point, I would head for the back deck where it was safe. I have sensitive skin, you know.

Anyway, I've done so much cleaning in the past two days that I'm just not sure that I'll ever get the smell of bleach out of my nostrils. Yesterday, I went over to the house of Funke and cleaned the shit out of her apartment. I started with the bathroom, which might not have been cleaned since she and her roomies arrived in December.

Halfway through, dripping with sweat and standing on a folding chair, the better to reach the top of the shower stall with my sponge, I felt someone watching me and realized that Sue's roommate Tom was staring at me. Important info: Tom probably has Asperger's Syndrome and is one of the more hilarious people I've ever met in my life. For example, he once claimed that he was going to make himself a business card that said: T.J. McG-----, Escaped Rapist. And pass it out to girls in bars.

Today, however, he contented himself with reaching over and turning on the shower while I was cleaning. Just a little.

I cleaned for about two or three hours and then came home and collapsed. Today, I got home from work and realized that my own place was a pit. The cobbler's wife goes barefoot, etc. Anyway, supposedly a boy is cooking me dinner on Thursday - I know! - so I thought I better make the place presentable.

Also, um, I was afraid my bathtub might be breeding clones, and I really do not want to wake up some morning to find a differently abled, one-eyed version of me sitting at my breakfast bar, drinking coffee and saying, "Steve! I wan' pizza. I wan' pizza, Steve."

FYI, I've never even seen that movie. My sister has, though. And we like to quote it to my brother-in-law, who is named Steve.

I am so high on bleach fumes right now. Send help.

Thanks, But I'll Just Keep Ruining My Underwear

This grosses me out more than I can say.

I love having my period. I love overeating and I love lying around and I love the excuse to use a heating pad. Most of all, though, I love complaining. And I love that no one can tell me not to complain, because they're all too terrified that I'll fly into some hormonally induced homicidal rage.

Oh, but Jennie, you say. If you love your period so much, whatever will you do when you reach menopause?

I'll throw a party and buy all new underpants. Because then it will be time for not having my period, y'see. It will be not-having-my-period time. Unlike now.

In the meantime, however, I'd appreciate it if science would leave me and Aunt Flo alone.

Via Jezebel, which you need to start reading immediately.

Help This

I went to Sephora at lunch today, to buy many things that I don't need. This often happens at the tail end of winter, when I'm feeling as pasty and vitamin deficient as I will all year. I wind up buying a hundred dollars worth of sugar scrubs and sparkle lotions, trying to wake up my face.

So OK. All well and good. Here's the real problem: The women at Sephora, the salespeople, will not leave you alone.

In my 20 minute trip through the store, no fewer than SIX different women asked me if I needed anything. One of them asked me three times. Through an effort of will, I managed to keep repeating, through gritted teeth, "I'm fine, thanks."

What I really wanted to say was: "Look, I'm trying to figure out if I need a $70 microdermabrasion kit. So can you just fuck off?"

Gawd.

OK, But OW

Because I know you live for updates on my menstrual cycle, I need to tell you that my boobs hurt right now, possibly more than boobs have ever hurt.

This is at least partially because I wore a low-cut dress to the Mouse's housewarming party last weekend, causing several people to grab my bosom as they walked by, as though it were a party favor. I seriously had thumb-prints on my nipples the next day. People were raised in a barn, apparently.

In any event: Ow.