Bren vs. PMS

I hope I didn't offend anyone by Sunday's post. I am not a vegetarian at all and love meat way too much to be sad (sorry......!!) but I realize that not everyone is that way. So if the graphic photos of crustaceans being boiled to death was too much, don't fret, because today we're going to talk about something more uplifting: PMS! 

You know you can always count on a hormones-related post at least once per month, because after the crying and pain, my meltdowns are kind of funny. 

On Saturday morning, Ian and I had fallen into our usual routine: I was on my computer stalking my blogs, and Ian was watching some sort of historical/educational/sports-related TV. That morning happened to be the Dog Whisperer, a show fascinating to Ian's psychology degree/counselor mind. He analyzes the dog whisperers movements, the way the dog responds, and even compares it to how that's the way that kids should be raised. I just like the dogs. 

While he studied the ways of a dog whisperer, I had also noticed a red spot on my nose that looked like it had the potential to form into a cyst like I had on the end of my nose in 8th grade (absolutely horrific). I took it upon myself to Google diagnose myself with skin cancer and as I looked at pictures of people who had their noses mangled by having growths removed, I freaked. One point for PMS.

We decided to head to the pet store to play with puppies, after I fully examined my nose in the mirror and Ian tried to convince me that I wasn't dying. I must say, if a sweet mini doberman pinscher in the arms of your handsome husband doesn't make you melt, I don't know what will.

After we had sufficiently overwhelmed the poor thing, we headed to Trader Joe's to stock up and stop in the other pet store. The first pet shop was small and quiet; the next one was a madhouse. Kids running all over the place, animals all over the place; we had to get in line to play with the beagle that we wanted. When we finally got into the room, this little guy was absolutely NUTS. It was running all over the place, biting my boots...so naturally, Ian took this opportunity to try out his dog whispering skills. 

Here's where the PMS comes in. For some reason, this irritated me to no end. As Ian tried to calm down the dog and make weird noises at it, I kept freaking out more when it would come bite my boots (they were expensive!). Ian told me I had to stay calm, but how was I supposed to stay calm?! Not to mention I had to go to the bathroom. I was officially done with dogs. PMS: two points.

So we went to Trader Joe's, I relieved myself, and we got free pizza samples. I was happy again. PMS 2,  BREN 1. 

We came home and I plopped onto the couch and happened to catch the Elizabeth Smart Lifetime movie. When she was reunited with her family in the end....oh boy, bring on the waterworks again. I sat on the couch blubbering "can you even IMAGINE?" and then decided I really, really missed my sister. Point for PMS. 

As I flipped to Miss Congeniality, Ian started making the lobsters. They boiled away in the pot, but the water in the pot kept boiling over. Ian wasn't really concerned by this, but it was the end of the world to me because water was getting everywhere. 

"It's just water! It will evaporate!" Says the husband.

"But it's making a mess!" 

I think it was at this point that I walked away in a huff. And returned to the delicious feast that you read about the other day. 

After dinner, I decided to give up giving up chocolate for Lent, and enjoyed some Girl Scout cookies while we cuddled on the couch and watched Young Frankenstein (a little overrated, if you ask me). So really, it turned out to be a good day.

All's well that ends well with a little chocolate, I always say. 

Turn Your PMS to PM-YES!

Sometimes, PMS hits you at full force in a public place where you can't control it, and then later you are mortified for blubbering at your husband at the grocery store as you pick out your fruits and veggies. 

And then, sometimes you come home and he asks if you are hungry for brunch. You say, I sure am hungry for brunch. And your husband makes you this:

Best enjoyed with a beer mug of milk and a dollop of peanut butter.

Diabetes-inducing french toast ain't your thing? Then just watch this. Because there's nothing like singing animals to lift your spirits from a funk...

My Most Hormonal Day Ever or: I Made Monkey Bread

Some days I think I'm a really cool wife. Other days, no matter how many times I ask my dear husband, "I just want to be a cool wife. Am I a cool wife? Are you sure?", I let my hormones get the best of me and my emotions and I turn into Bren the Weird Wife.

This is nothing new to Ian. Once he survived my first dumb meltdown (was it over a baking disaster? A stubbed toe? A glass of spilled milk? I'll have to ask him...) several years ago and assured me that he still loved me and didn't think I was crazy, I knew that he would be a keeper. However, it wouldn't have been too far beyond me to sneak something into the vows about sticking together through PMS or non-PMS-related meltdowns. You know, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, especially during that time of the month...till death do us part.

So today, I was just feeling a little cranky for no particular reason. Which is typically solved by eating food that's terrible for me. After perusing the web for a Dutch Oven Cinnamon Bread-type of recipe, I decided that it would be a fabulous day to make monkey bread. After church, I trekked down the road to Giant to pick up some yeast and the sunshine lifted my spirits a bit.

I returned home and laid out all the ingredients on the counter as gunshots and loud noises emerged from Ian's new Playstation. I rambled to him about how I was still getting used to living with a boy after coming from a house where the TV was ruled by TLC and HGTV, not video games and football (I had a lot of coffee this morning). I had my computer perched on the counter with the Dutch Oven Monkey Bread recipe and ran to the bedroom to get the chord for it. I yanked the chord from the wall, but must of yanked a little too violently, because the next thing I knew the glass of water sitting on my nightstand was all over everything near it, including the floor, some books, and our framed engagement photos still sitting on the floor.

Like I said, too much coffee.

And that's where the floodgates burst. After yelling a few bad words, more coming each time I saw a new thing that was now soaked, I stormed out to grab a roll of paper towels. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to salvage the wet photos and wipe up the wet glass. Ian heard the ruckus and came in to help, while I wailed about ruining the beautiful photos he had framed for me, and cried some more about the fact that I was crying over spilled water.

In truth, nothing was really ruined. Ian gave the pictures a few quick blasts from the hair dryer, and laid them out to dry on the floor. Other than a few wet spots on the carpet, it turned out that the world wasn't actually ending.

I emerged from the bedroom to grab a handful of tissues to wipe up my very attractive snotty nose. When Ian followed behind me, he said (cautiously), "You alright?".

I fell into a hug and then the tears started all over again. This time, maybe because I was so happy he was my husband? Or that he saved our precious photos that could be printed again from Walmart from their soggy death?

As I burrowed my face into his shoulder, I said "I'm going to make something that's really bad for us."

"Awesome", he said.

"It has two sticks of butter in it."

"Go for it."

"I'm a weird wife."

"You're not a weird wife."

And then we moved on with life. And I made monkey bread. Not until after I realized halfway through that I hardly had any flour left in the cabinet (contrary to popular belief, once you move away from home there is no magic flour fairy that makes sure your staples are always stocked) and made yet another trek to Giant sans meltdown. And realized when I got home that I was wearing my grungiest, most see-through shirt I own. You're welcome, teenage boys of the Springfield Giant.

Several hours later, the most amazing combination of yeast, cinnamon, and butter I have ever laid my little mouth on popped out of the oven.

She might be weird, but she sure can bake. Sometimes.