So, about that Oscar the Grouch post that's been decorating the top of this page for the past way too long: I was feeling mighty grumpy that day, as the title suggested. The day after I wrote it, I went around kicking random household items for being so goddamn IN MY WAY all the time. I came close to crying about thirteen times the week, including the moment that I found out there was no new episode of The Ultimate Fighter and when I realized we had no iced tea mix. And then (gentlemen folk avert your eyes) I got my period. Collective palm to the forehead, if you please.
After nearly thirty years (hear me saying the number out loud?) of being a lady-type person you'd think I would be able to recognize some good old fashioned PMS, yes? But now that we're here in TMI territory, let me tell you something else: I kind of sort of went off the pill in May.
Before you start clapping your hands and throwing pacifiers at me, please know this: we are not "trying." Yet. But, at some point in the soonish (but not TOO soon) future, we would like to maybe think about doing that, so I figured I'd stop taking the pill just to see what would happen. Plus, my prescription ran out three weeks before my annual lady appointment and I didn't feel like calling the office ahead of time to request a special advance refill, so there was that.
I had credited the pill with keeping me to a handy and convenient 28-day cycle and preventing babies, and not much else. And then I stopped taking it, and you guys... it's been bad. Thanks to your comments on this post I have procured and almost finished reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility, so I understand that my body is a scientific marvel of feminine power, blah blah blah. But tell that to everyone who has to interact with me when I'm riding the hormonal roller coaster, because hoo boy. I turn into this caricature sitcom version of a PMS-fueled bizzotch and even I don't want to be around myself. I have to stifle tears over everything from SPCA commercials to perfectly benign emails. The cat yowling when I get home is enough to set me into a three-day rage over how nobody appreciates anything I do. I watch Bobby Flay's Thanksgiving Throwdown Special and suddenly have an insatiable urge to eat an entire pan of roasted brussel sprouts, despite the fact that I've never before had brussel sprouts or pancetta in my life. After about five days of feeling like a bona fide crazy person I'll start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, please dear baby Jesus, my homicidal mood swings might mean I'm about to get my period.
And then, yup. DURR. Well, who'd have thunk it?
I'm not really sure what the point of this whole story was, but one thing has become pretty clear: when we do decide it's time for babies, I am going to be one fun pregnant person.