PMS

Crankypants: A Song of Fever & Cramps

~ Bon Steele ~ Leave a comment
These...are my Crankypants!!

 

Fair Warning – parts of this particular entry are gross.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To get the full effect, say the above picture caption in the same manner as Ash from “Army of Darkness”.

 

 

Please send soup. And Midol.

Halloween weekend and night were awesome.  However, I apparently contracted the Venusian Death cold sometime during it. I have become a walking, talking snot-factory. Cough, wheeze, snork, hork, and sneeze. It is far more fun than any human should be allowed. /sarcasm
On top of that, my EUPHIMISM DETECTED! showed up, approximately five days late.
May I just say that sneezing while your bodily is busily doing uterine demolition work? So.not.recommended.

~bleah~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a related note, my thinking and creative abilities are dead. They’ve been suffocated by the vast amounts of nose goo.

OK – not entirely true. I do have a little cognitive ability not muffled by a layer of mucous. Unfortunately, I have to use it to do laundry. Also? I must call the University to find out WHY their application status check web page sucks gangrenous donkey schlong. Because it does. It sucks and I hate them. Hate, hate, hate.
No, wait.
LOATHE ENTIRELY.

I just want to find out if I was accepted for the Spring semester. The provided “check it yerself” web-app doesn’t work. It just pretends to load and pretends to load and pretends to load….

I am not asking too much, am I? I’d like to think that I am a shoo-in, academically speaking. Not being able to check is making me a touch crazy, though. I hate not knowing.

Feh. I am going to go make yet another cup of tea and then kill some zombies. Maybe blasting hordes of undead will make me feel better.  At the very least, it will be something to do while I wait in endless “your call is important to us, please stay on the line” hell.

Balrogs, Bambi and To Do Lists

~ Bon Steele ~ 1 Comment

I got damn little done yesterday, in spite of plans to the contrary. I didn’t even cook, properly. Yesterday it was supposed to go something like this:

Tra la la la

Bluebirds trill & sing. Bambi brings the To Do List, drops it at my feet. Somewhere off to the left, choral music swells triumphantly. In calligraphy beautiful enough to make angels weep, the To Do list says: 

** make menu for week
** grocery shop according to menu
** clean and organize my closet
** clean and organize the master bath’s under-sink cabinetry so I can get the towels under there
** clean and organize the linen closet: remove towels & add blankets
** clean in the master bedroom: dust the furniture, put light quilt onto bed with fluffy pillows, vacuum
** finish organizing the kitchen drawers
** go through Tupperware; toss/recycle/donate any that do not have lids, are icky or both
** clean interior of fridge
** finish reading for government class; if feeling frisky enough start paper
** put together post for blog; if feeling frisky enough, do another for squirrel-like storage of future posts

Instead, what happened was:

All our pain are belong to you.

Our Heroine is seen laboring over a weekly menu that is both healthy and tasty. She is checking web sites, cookbooks and putting things into an Excel spreadsheet.*
A gnarly, callused hand – obviously that of a minor demon – reaches out from stage left and whaps Our Heroine on the head, causing a searing pain to bloom behind her eyes.
At the same moment, a spiked maul comes whistling out of nowhere and pummels her across the lower back. The name writ across the handle of the maul, in the language of the Balrog, says “Dysmenorrhea, Goddess of Shrieks”.
Our Heroine collapses in a heap around her abdomen. She crawls off to the shower, there to down the potion of Advil and take in the scalding water of healing.

All…ALL I got done yesterday was the grocery shopping. And even that was kind of a blue-eyed wonder. By four in the afternoon, I had taken the “maximum safe dosage for a 24 hour period” of Advil and had moved onto Tylenol.  I sincerely and devoutly hope that today goes better.

Also? I would kind of like it if I haven’t damaged my internal organs with toxic levels of ibuprofen.  Pleaseandthankyew.

* – Yes, really.

craps, is it that time already?

~ Bon Steele ~ 28 Comments

TMI WARNING! (if I could make it blink I would. Promise.)

This post talks about …*glances about for the squeamish* … MENSTRUATION. If you are completely unable to read about this sort of stuff, I have provided a picture of a baby bunny at the bottom of the post. Just skip on down and enjoy!

Thanks!
~The Mgmt

Bloated?
———> Check!

Irritable?
———> Check!

Feeling ugly and useless?
———> Check!

Eating anything not nailed down, esp. if contains hideous amounts of sugar or salt?
———> Check!

Headachey?
———> Check!

Good lord, it must be PMS time!

I have the most gawdaful, cranky, sweaty, cold, painful and nasty periods. What’s worse is that they often sneak up on me. I will be going along, fine and the WHAMMO! Blood outta fucking nowhere! And we aren’t talking a dainty little teaspoon, oh no. Nonono. Not on MY uterus’s watch. More often, it looks like I have messily murdered a midget in my bed.

I was tired of getting constantly surprised (and buying sheets) so I downloaded an app to keep track of things. It is muy wonderful as far as it goes. But it doesn’t do all the things that it should. For example, I think that it should send out email notifications to all my nearest and dearest. Maybe something that blinks or sounds giant klaxxons, warning of impending bitchitude. Flower and chocolate companies should be put on alert as well. FedEx trucks should roll up to my door and drop off econo-boxes of Advil. Additionally, during my period I think every time I pick up the iPod, I should get a little bio-feedback. With, I dunno, dolphins and whalesongs and some shit.

One of my cousins – years ago, and no I have NO idea what happened to the snippy little twat girl – told me that I was causing my own pain/misery by expecting it. If only I would just relax and let, like Mother Nature take Her Natural Course (trust me, you could hear the capital letters). Why, then I would not be wrought up and tense and my period would be *wonderful*.

*eyebrow arch*

Oh, really Ms. I Bleed Lightly For Three Whole Days? Well, let me tell YOU something. When you stop shitting bluebirds and bleeding pixie dust and start having a real period, then you and I can talk. Tell you what — why don’t you come back on Day-flipping-7 of MY little trip through Nature’s Bounty, and we can discuss how rapturous it all is.

I suggest you bring ice cream.